


Ludus

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, First Time, Gladiators, Legends, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pseudo-History, Romance, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 119,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rome, 41 AD. Merlin, physician to Emperor Claudius, is assigned two new patients, gladiators from one of the local ludii. While one of them is open, flirty and talkative, the other isn't. He bears no name, doesn't discuss his past, and isn't quite so accepting of Merlin's bedside manner. He clothes himself in the stoic courage of those who know they're about to die. Until Merlin works a chink in his armour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrtitten for this kinkme_merlin prompt: http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/36351.html?thread=40335871#t40335871

Under a sun that bakes his neck, Merlin moves across the stands, trying not to trip into the spectators' legs or the hems of ladies' stolas. “Sorry,” he says, as he obstinately picks his way forwards. “Sorry.”

Squeezing past a portly man drinking wine from a wooden cup, Merlin sinks next to Gaius. “Sorry,” he says again. It seems to him that he's done nothing but repeat that word since he's had access to this area of the arena. “But senators' daughters will never really believe you when you say they're not mortally ill. You have to swear by your opinion again and again before they actually do.”

One of Gaius' eyebrows perches an inch short of his hairline. “Don't complain about your patients, Merlin. They're your livelihood.”

Merlin opens his mouth and lets it fall gently shut when he realises he has no rebuttal, because although he has no idea how obnoxious Celia Lepida can be, Gaius isn't wrong. “So why did you want me here when you know how much I hate these sorts of places?”

Despite the small shivers of distaste that his location engenders, Merlin bestows his attention on the arena. He studies the sand as it's turned ochre by the sun and the marble columns that surround the porta from which the gladiators will emerge. They glare pristine in their squatness. He observes the serrated rows of marble benches on which hundreds of people are sitting and notices the colours of their garments. They vary from the deep greens and oranges of the ladies' garments, to the whites of the citizen's togas, to the purples featured on the tunics the senators wear. Because of the cacophony of loud voices and louder hues, Merlin can't help but feel a bit hollow in the stomach, his skin too tight for his body.

“Because, my wayward youth,” says Gaius, “your next job is here.”

Merlin makes to say something else because that statement needs clearing up, but gives up when the drums sound and the crowd starts clamouring so loudly his lone voice can't be heard over it. 

With a clank of chains the doors to the arena open and two groups of three men pour out, short swords, daggers, nets and other implements of death ready in their hands. 

They stand upright, their legs wide, their sandals leaving deep imprints in the red sand. They're all different one from the other. 

The first is a mountain of a man with shorn hair that runs in funnels over his skull and tattoos that circle his forearm in a band of tight, intricate whorls. These designs have a measure of the familiar about them. From his position high in the stands Merlin can't see well, but he's certainly reminded of home when he contemplates them. The man's bulk is so impressive the public roars when he salutes them. 

The second and third men are smaller, similar in height and in the square cut of their jaws. They could be brothers. But maybe they are not. Merlin has no idea and doesn't want to speculate. That only brings pain. 

The next two gladiators in the row are men of Merlin's size, one of them in particular has Merlin's complexion and colouring. It's eerie.

The last man in the line up isn't wearing his helmet yet, revealing blond hair like that of the late emperor Octavian, eyes that narrow against the glint of the sun, and skin goldened by the midday glare of the amphitheatre. He is a secutor. 

Merlin isn't terribly versed in the games, but he can tell that much by taking in the way the man's accoutred – a loincloth wrapped around his waist, drawn between his muscular legs and stopped above by a wide belt of intricate design – and by his armament. That too is highly suggestive of his calling, for he bears a gladius, a rectangular scutum Merlin isn't sure will do much against the blows of his enemy, and an arm-guard. This last item is made of interlinked and overlapping metal segments that reflect the sun better than a quiescent body of water.

His chin is up, his jaw cast out. He looks healthy and defiant, life pulsing under his skin. His will to fight is evidenced by his focused expression – a brow marred by a deep frown – his taut tendons and the bulging muscles that define his body. 

“I don't want to see it,” Merlin says quietly, so low in his throat that he's easily drowned out by those of the public who are shouting themselves hoarse in an effort to show their allegiance to their favourites. 

It doesn't matter who wins, Merlin thinks. These men have come out to die to satisfy a thirst Merlin can't comprehend, not in this guise, not without going against the beliefs he holds most sacred. They stand no chance. Not in the long run. If they live today, it doesn't follow they will be alive by the end of the year. On these terms, he doesn't want to witness the débâcle that is sure to follow.

The combat starts. It's not meant to be a fair fight. The opponents have been chosen on the basis of the spectacle they can provide, how much they can entertain, which means attention has been given to mismatching them. Mountain man, for example, has been set against the tiny individual who reminds Merlin of himself. 

The blond man – his hair now obscured by the blunt helmet – is facing a retiarius, a warrior equipped with net, trident and dagger. It's a traditional pairing, and one that always pleases crowds.

Even from the start it's clear the secutor fights well. He's prudent, temperate, quick on his feet. Constantly balancing his weight and shifting from foot to foot, he holds his shield up, looking for an opening that will secure him a swift victory. He doesn't act for the longest time, but Merlin suspects that he's only studying his adversary. With a burst of power that surprises Merlin because it comes from nowhere, he lunges and scores a hit with his gladius. A red bloody stripe opens on the retiarius' arm. 

The retiarius hisses, reacts, gathers his net.

As it is lashed at him, the secutor steps back and out of its range. 

The retiarius is at a disadvantage now. His throw hasn't in any way touched his opponent or impaired him at all. He now has to re-group and figure out some other to attack. He needs time and that he doesn't have because the secutor is swift to duck in close again, so close the retiarius' net is made useless. 

The secutor's blade scores a gash down the retiarius' thigh. 

Merlin's medical expertise is enough to tell him that that is no way a maiming blow, let alone a killing one. It may stun, confuse, hurt, but it will do no more harm than that. Blood loss will only make itself felt in the long run and the fight has just begun. 

The secutor is strong and agile, but he might just have made a mistake in not closing in for the kill. This mistake incenses the crowd and makes Merlin almost believe that perhaps the secutor doesn't want to kill any more than Merlin wants to see people die. But that's impossible, isn't it?

That's not in the nature of the game. Even now Mountain Man is despatching Merlin's look alike with a blow of his dagger to the guts. With his shield, he half takes off his opponent's head. People die in the most miserable of ways in the arena. Merlin knows that, the secutor knows that, the games' organisers know that better than any of them.

Bile rising in his gullet, Merlin looks away, throat working. But, as if drawn in by a blood spell, his eyes alight back on the fight between the secutor and the retiarius. Because of the secutor's mistake, the retiarius has had time to renegotiate his tactics. He's been quick-witted enough to cast his net at his adversary. With a loud, jarring clang one of the lead weights in the net strikes the secutor's helmet, making him stagger backwards. 

Now at an advantage, the retiarius closes in. 

Trumpets blare with a cacophony that jangles Merlin's nerves; flutes trill. The secutor feints to the left and avoids being speared by the retiarius trident. Blocking the retiarus' repeated blows, which sound like thunder on his shield, the secutor goes on the defensive, closing his stance, holding his shield up over his arm. Several blows have landed on the flat of it, when the secutor roars, dives left, and breaks out of the impasse. He takes to using the shield's edge to hit. His opponent’s attention having shifted onto the first weapon, his gladius slices skin.

The retiarius must have been taken aback by the violence of this onslaught because his trident dips and swings to one side only, leaving him wide open on the other. Merlin knows little about fighting and more from inverse practice, from mapping the wounds that weapons inflict rather than from direct knowledge, but even he can tell the retiarius' mistake portends an early end for him.

“Fight harder,” a faction of the public shouts. “Watch out.”

The other faction, the one supporting the secutor, claps and whistles.

In the din, the retiarius' net tangles with his trident just long enough to put him at further disadvantage and give the secutor the opening he needs. His sword goes true and deep and the retiarius drops.

"Gods!" Merlin closes his eyes as the audience around him clamours for death.

When Merlin finds the wherewithal to peek again, the retiarius is on his haunches, his hands staunching the blood pouring from his wound. Because of the cheers of the crowd, even the other combatants momentarily stop, waiting for the final act that will settle this fight.

"He lost," members of the crowd shout while several down-turned thumbs are held up. "Jugula! Jugula!" 

The secutor holds the hilt of his gladius between both hands, his arms bulging with muscle and trembling subtly. In the absence of the emperor, he looks to the summa rudis for a verdict. 

While the audience yells for blood, the referee briefly converses with his assistant. Time seems to freeze. Merlin isn't sure he's hearing the crowd any longer. Not a noise breaches his consciousness. The referee points his thumb down. 

"He can't,” Merlin says, clutching the front of his tunic, where it spreads over his knees. Merlin closes his eyes, focuses on an image that usually brings him calm. A well is at the centre of it and green grass springs around it, tall and bending in the breeze, crawling with life, insects, birds, little mammals. Water bubbles in the well. The lady of the well lifts a hand, the sun in her palm. 

“Please, Brigid,” he murmurs. “Spare him,” he says that in his native language, letting his tongue roll around the words, whisper quick and sibilant like it's an incantation of great power, although it is not. Prayer evoked, he opens his eyes again.

The secutor has grabbed the retiarius by the head and tilted it back, his blade poised against his Adam's apple.

The retiarius doesn't move a muscle, doesn't flinch.

The secutor, on the other hand, trembles in place. As if to follow through with the strike, he lifts his weapon, but the blade doesn't come down. Instead of going for the kill, the secutor takes off his helmet, looks to the crowd, dabs at his forehead with his forearm, and drops his headgear. It rolls to a stop not too far away from the feet of the hulking gladiator. Mindless of this, the secutor turns around, rolls his shoulders, and again contemplates his downed enemy, his lips compressed and pushed outwards.

Unable to take it, Merlin stands up. “Tell me where the job is,” he tells Gaius. “I can't stay a moment longer.”

“Merlin, my boy,” Gaius says but just then he's silenced by the secutor's shout, which rumbles around the arena like the call of a storm in Merlin's native land. 

“No,” the secutor thunders in excellent but accented Latin, throwing his shoulders back and pointing at the retiarius with his gladius. “I won't kill a man for mere entertainment.” He drops his arm to the side. “And neither do you want me to.” He pivots on his legs to take in the crowd. “Not really.”

Merlin fervently hopes he will be listened to, that his words will have an effect, change the outcome of this day's fight. For now they're rippling around the arena, which has grown silent, the spectators waiting for the outcome, watching the referee for any signs his opinion has changed.

It hasn't. The referee confirms the thumbs down motion. The secutor's shoulders slope. He approaches the waiting retiarius. With a swift cut, he opens the man's jugular, blood splashing him, covering his victim's front in licks of crimson. Without even a gasp, the dying man falls back, twitches, then slowly stills.

When all life has left his opponent, the secutor throws his sword down, his mouth twisting sideways.

Merlin clenches his teeth. He wants to shout to the man, tell him to pick his gladius back up, that he won't be doing anyone any favours if he, too, dies. 'You're not responsible,' he wants to say. 'It's this wicked game that is.' Of course he can't reach out to the man. He can't share that opinion. He can't be heard over the din. He can only make fists, and hum, his body coiled, while he witnesses what happens next. 

Two men dressed like Pluto, their garb flowing, a dark cloak enveloping them like the mists of the underworld, drag the limp body of the dead retiarius onto a black chariot drawn by equally black horses. The conveyance passes through the shadows of the gate and disappears completely from view, erasing the retiarius' existence from the audience's minds.

“The games can reprise,” the referee's assistant announces in an unsteady voice. 

Feeling as though something's sucking at his brain and emptying it of grey matter, Merlin brushes his fingertips across his damp forehead, touches it where it's at his clammiest, and coolest. He's about to sit back down again and brace himself for the rest of the so called spectacle, when Gaius tells him, "Maybe you should go see Marcellus, the lanista. It's why you're here after all."

“I don't,” Merlin says, rubbing his jaw with fingers sticky with the sweat that came off his brow. “I--”

“Merlin, just go,” Gaius says, stern, his mouth pursed in a thin disapproving line. “A patient is waiting for you.”

As four of the gladiators in the arena prepare once more to fight, Merlin leaves the stands. 

He finds the lanista in the dark passageways that meander behind and beneath the arena, where shadows merge with light and everything looks as though the underworld has extended its pall on it. 

“This man you're going to see, physician,” the lanista says, “is one of my best gladiators. Fetches quite the money, and not just in terms of fights won, if you know what I mean.” The man, all hardened muscle and close cropped hair, a scar running down his face and touching both lip and chin, rubs his nose and waggles his eyebrows.

Merlin bows his head and flinches. “I get it,” Merlin says, not needing to be reminded of the fact gladiators are popular with the ladies. “I do.”

“It would be quite a loss if he died,” the lanista says, leading him down a tuff corridor lined with sand at the bottom. “Quite a loss indeed.”

After some wandering down the tunnels, the lanista halts before a wooden door. He takes a key from the metal ring fastened to his belt and opens it. He invites Merlin to enter the cell, but doesn't follow him inside. “Just stop that wound from festering,” he says, before locking Merlin in with a dark-haired gladiator, who's reclining on a straw-lined pallet. 

“Oh,” the gladiator says through gritted teeth, “they brought me a pretty physician so I'm blessed with a fine sight before I die.”

Losing his hesitation, Merlin approaches the pallet. It doesn't take him long to close in on what's wrong with his new patient. The gash that has sliced across ten inches of the man's thigh is deep and swollen, black at the edges. It reeks powerfully too. “One would have thought you'd have been hoping for a good physician.”

The man barks a laugh. “I'm going to meet my gods anyway,” the gladiator says. “I'd rather do that as a happy man.”

With careful fingers, Merlin examines the man. He doesn't touch the wound but palpates his patient for broken bones and swollen joints. He finds bruises, cuts, but no tenderness in the abdomen, no major fractures. But for the wound in his thigh, this man is as healthy as a horse. “Don't you want to learn there's hope for you?”

“I'm going to call myself satisfied if you kiss me, beautiful physician,” the gladiator says.

Merlin ought not, but smiles nonetheless. He feels the man's cranium, says, “I'm not kissing you,” and pushes his patient back down. “But I'm going to fix you.”

“Normally, I'd be ready to believe every word that issues from your mouth because I like you, physician,” the gladiator says. “But unfortunately I know that what you're saying is bull.”

Merlin doesn't take that amiss, or as an aspersion cast on his ability as a doctor. He has eyes to see and is as rational as his patient seems to be. He makes no other comment, lowers his head, and retreats a few paces. He knocks on the door and when it inches open he sees a boy on the other side. He says, “Can you read?” 

The boy nods quickly.

“Go to this address then,” Merlin says, handing the boy a piece of parchment. “And fetch me my bag and my instruments.”

The boy looks at the note, wags his head once, then closes the door on him with a turn of the key. From the other side, Merlin can hear his footfall and tell that he's started off at a run. Bodes well. Seeing as he and his patient are alone again, Merlin sits on a stool he moves close to the pallet. “Why don't we get acquainted?”

“Why not,” his patient says. “I'm Gwaine.”

“Merlin,” Merlin says.

“An unusual name for a Roman.”

A soft smile on his face, Merlin shrugs. “That's because I'm not a Roman, and neither are you.”

“But I did have the citizenship once,” Gwaine says, but in such a way Merlin knows not to ask. So he shifts the conversation onto harmless subjects. He starts talking about the weather, how hot and close it is today, how bad for the health that is. Gwaine is not very receptive to that, so Merlin changes tack once more. He takes to discussing nature: plants and flowers, rare species of them, medicinal herbs. Gwaine starts commenting, responding. The exchange flows beautifully from then on. They might be talking about nothing really, but the conversation is enjoyable, and it tells Merlin lots about his patient, that he's well read, that he has travelled and that he's not too bad a botanist.

Only when the boy returns does the conversation stop. Gwaine grows pensive, fidgets, but doesn't speak up. Merlin busies himself with his 'bag of tricks'. He opens phials and mixes powders, which he combines with water he pours in a low cup. He gives the concoction to Gwaine to drink. 

“Will it kill me?” Gwaine asks, sniffing at the cup. 

“No.” Merlin bows his head. “It'll make you sleep.”

“What have I got to lose?” Gwaine says with a wary shoulder lift and downs the cup in one gulp. “Gah, foul.”

Merlin takes the cup from him, places it on the window sill by the pallet. “Oh no it wasn't,” he says. “I even added honey to it.”

“It tasted like dung, friend,” Gwaine says.

“No, it didn't,” Merlin insists, again sitting by Gwaine's side. “I'll have you know that my potions are better than Gaius' and Gaius is quite a celebrated physician.”

Gwaine shapes his mouth into a 'o' of retort, but before he can say anything else his head has drooped and he has toppled backwards.

Merlin stands. “Told you,” he says, placing both hands either side of Gwaine's wound.

He focuses on the image of the well he summoned before while watching the goings on in the arena. In his mind's eye he sees flowers push from under the soil and bloom, and butterflies bat their wings, ascending towards the heavens in glimmering motes of sunshine. He invokes the goddess then, and Ogmios, too, for strength.

His palms heat up with the warmth that pulses out of him, from his belly and his heart. When he blinks, reality superseding the world of the vision, he notices that the margins of Gwaine's would have grown neater.

There is no more swelling and the black skin patches previously dotted around it are no longer there. The wound hasn't fully knit, he can't heal his patient's flesh seamlessly and provide an explanation for such a miraculous cure, but that doesn't mean the wound doesn't appear much more benign now. Nothing that some salve and a few bandages won't cure anyway.

As the sun flooding in from the cell's window becomes a rustier orange, Merlin dresses the wound, applying poultices he's prepared according to the precepts Gaius taught him when he was much younger. When the thick bluish paste has covered all of the lesion, Merlin wraps it in clean bandages.

When he's done, he throws all his medical paraphernalia back into his bag and knocks on the door. The same boy who ran his errand for him lets him out.

“Tell Marcellus,” Merlin says as he watches the boy lock the door on his patient, “that I will be back in two days to see how he's doing.”

 

****

 

As Merlin stops before an arch propped by two ornate marble columns, the guards escorting him come to a halt and move to his sides to flank him.

The praetorians standing before the draped passageway cross swords. “Identify yourself,” says Manius Larcius Elianus, his tone solemn, his features less so.

“I thought you'd rhave come to recognise me by now, Elianus,” says Merlin, quirking his mouth. “I do think you do.”

“Of course I do,” says Elianus with a friendly smile, “but I have to do my job.”

Merlin puts his hand on the blade, making certain he does it lightly so as not to cut himself, and lowers it. “Naturally, I just beg you to let me do mine.”

Elianus sheaths his sword. “Unlike yours, some jobs are very high risk,” he says rolling his eyes at the drapery and the room it conceals. “So I have to be watchful.”

“I get that,” Merlin says, dropping his eyes so they close in on the sheath encasing the blade. 

Elianus steps sideways, motioning him forward with his palm. “We'll try and remember to lower our weapons next time you come visit, physician.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, pushing past the draperies that enclose the rooms before him. 

The chamber Merlin steps in is wide and gives onto a garden that overlooks the forum. The walls are painted with murals scenes rich in reds and golds and intricate arabesques on white ground. In the scenes depicted gods mingle with humans, gamble, cavort and chase beasts of enormous proportions. Beautiful people make love with such sublimated yearning, their limbs a tangle of beauty, that Merlin longs for such touch with an ache that settles in his bones. This being inappropriate considering the nature of this visit, he shifts his attention on the painted columns that mark the corners of the chamber. They provide such an illusion of depth he could almost believe them real. 

He's shifting on his feet, when Claudius shuffles back in from the garden, the limp in his step more pronounced today. “Merlin,” he acknowledges.

Merlin bows his head. “Caesar,” he says, his fist on his heart. He looks up again. “Are you feeling unwell, sire?”

“My knee hurts,” the Emperor says, dragging his leg forward as he plods to the table. “And I feel weak today.”

“I can do something for the knee,” says Merlin. “I'm not sure the weakness isn't part of the ailment that normally afflicts you, Caesar.”

Claudius sinks onto a stool and extends his leg. In this position his stoop is more visible, probably accentuated by fatigue. “My ailment, yes,” Claudius says, his gaze casually landing on the map spread over his wide desk. “Sometimes I revile it and yet sometimes I think it saved my life.”

Merlin doesn't particularly want to go into that though he knows about what happened to the former emperor. “Blessings do come in disguise sometimes.”

Claudius hums thoughtfully, raises an eyebrow. “I knew how to help myself. It wasn't just fate.”

“I have no doubt of that, Caesar,” Merlin says, taking out a powder from his medical bag. “Now let's try and get some of this into you.”

As Merlin prepares the potion, mixing the powder with some sweet wine, the emperor peruses his map. Merlin knows the procedure by heart so he talks as works at concocting the medicine. “This map is quite detailed.”

“Oh yes it is,” the emperor says, his open palm hovering over it. “It is quite essential that it'd be.”

Merlin understands why that is. The need for for precise renditions of possible battle grounds isn't hard to fathom. But that consideration quickly ushers in a series of wayward thoughts, of home, the past, how his homeland would have been like if it hadn't been shaped by events that have led it to be as it now is, an extension of Rome and romanised in most ways. It's with a pang, some clenching of the heart, that he looks at the northern and western section of the map, at the conjunction of rivers, plains and reliefs that make it up. A map doesn't only represent the lay of the land, he thinks, but politics as well. Confines sometimes are no more natural than they are a symbol of a status quo. “I guess such a map woul serve an emperor well.”

Merlin stirs the potion with a spoon and hands it to Claudius. 

“It does,” Claudius says, accepting the glass from Merlin. “I remember you saying you were Gaulish... I think it was Gaulish that you said you were...”

“I am,” Merlin says, watching as the emperor drinks his concoction without a qualm. “I'm actually of the Veneli.”

“I know of that tribe,” Claudius says, his eyes now shining with the pride of knowledge, the light of curiosity “Caesar wrote about them. Your people gave Rome a hard time both at Alesia and before.”

“Yes, yes they did,” Merlin says, squaring his shoulders. 

“Nobody,” Claudius tells him, meeting his gaze, “should feel shame for their origins. Only for their actions.”

Head down, Merlin nods. Without addressing the emperor's comment he goes back to work, rooting into his bag. As he does so, a man walks in, his crested helmet tucked under his arm.

“I will come back later, Caesar,” the man says when his gaze alights on Merlin.

Claudius motions the new arrival in. “Don't, Plautius. I summoned you here to have a talk and that talk we'll have.”

Plautius scans Merlin head to foot. “Caesar?”

“You can talk before my physician, Plautius,” Claudius says. “I think I understand humanity enough to tell a spy from a doctor.” He pauses and spears Merlin with a penetrating glance even as Merlin bends over to examine the emperor's aching knee. From this up close his eyes appear both steely and benign. “Besides, if the news he overhears gets out, I'm afraid we will be able to tell the source.”

Merlin's hands don't falter at all as he palpates the emperor's kneecap for any tenderness, or as he touches the back of the knee, trying to locate any swelling.

“Very well,” says Plautius, standing at attention. “I'll have my say then. Prince Artorious hasn't been found yet. The Catuvellauni have invaded the northernmost edge of his kingdom and divided it with his uncle, Agravaine of the Votadini, but of the young man himself there is no trace.”

Merlin taps the emperor's kneecap to check there is no effusion deep in the tissues. He has made no allowance for Claudius starting though and he has to dive to accommodate the motion and not be kneed himself. “He can't have disappeared. Are you sure he wasn't done away with?”

“Positive, Caesar,” says Plautius, sounding more and more like your run of the mill army officer. 

“In which case,” the Emperor says, wincing when Merlin does find some swelling in his joints, “he must be found.”

“We've tried, Caesar,” Plautius says. “We have twenty men in the Fourth's second century whose job has become finding out where he is and gathering intelligence, but so far, nothing.”

Quite done with his examination of the emperor's knee, Merlin steps back, retreating as far away from the table as he can. There's no way he can avoid hearing what's being said though.

The emperor says, “He is the key. If we can restore him to the throne--” Claudius taps the map, right where Britain lies. “-- we can put a foot back in the area too. Build from there.”

Plautius' chest deflates. “We'll try and find him, Caesar.”

“Yes, yes,” Claudius says, “that is absolutely key. Right in this very moment we are teetering on the edge of an abyss. This man must be found.”

“Yes, Caesar,” Plautius says, saluting.

“Now, please, Plautius,” Claudius says, tiredly massaging his knee, a facial tic briefly distorting his features before the Emperor can restrain himself. “Leave me with my physician. But do feel free to communicate any new developments as soon as they are known.”

Plautius nods, thumps his cuirass in a way Merlin has seen military men do, and departs with a high tramp of boots.

“My young physician,” Cladius says, moving from the stool to the bed hidden in the corner, behind purple and white veils, “you must think me a bad specimen of human kind.”

Merlin doesn't say anything. It's not his place to judge his patients. It wouldn't do them any good and it wouldn't serve his purpose either. He wants to focus on healing them rather. Still, he can't forget all ethics, or erase all the opinions he upholds. In fact, as he moves towards the emperor, he can't help but consider the ill effects politics have had on the land of his birth and on his trade. He recalls the legends that were told among his people, tales that come from their lore, and on which the legacy of his calling rests. It is something that Rome has taken from him, It's something that it's about to take from others as well, if not in the exact same shape. “No, I don't,” he says, feeling his patient's brow and neck. “I think you're an emperor first however.”

“Peace is bought with war,” Claudius says as he lies there while Merlin examines him. “Stability with expansion.”

“Octavian didn't believe that,” Merlin says, pulling down the skin under his patient's eye to find it ringed orange. “He did believe in peace.”

“He was in a different position,” Claudius observes as Merlin takes his pulse. “After strife people wanted order. And he did make war in the provinces.”

“That is true,” Merlin says, rounding off his examination by feeling the emperor's abdomen. 

“And look at me now,” Claudius says. “Newly emperor, after the last was...”

“Done away with,” Merlin says, meeting the emperor's eyes.

Claudius' eyebrows lift and Merlin knows it's not one of those spasms that sometimes overtake him. “Yes, so you do understand my position.”

“I think I see its dangers,” says Merlin, stepping back. He goes back to talking shop. “You're not worse than you generally are, Caesar. Your underlying condition is what it was, but not worse.”

“So you're saying,” Claudius says, tapping his temple, “that it's not in my head.”

“Not at all,” Merlin says, clasping his hands before him. “The one that you have is a very real condition, I believe.” Certain symptoms Merlin is convinced can't be faked and aren't caused by over-ripe emotions. “Though surely I do think that preoccupations do have an impact on pre-existing ailments.”

“You're not unwise,” Claudius tells him, and he munches his lips. “So what will I have to do?”

“I'll leave a few medicines with you,” says Merlin. “You will have to take the powders in the evening and the potion in the morning.”

“I'll follow your instructions closely.” The Emperor sits up. “Are you going?”

Merlin lifts a shoulder. “I have other patients to see today.”

“What kind of patients?” the Emperor asks. “If, of course, you can say as much.”

“The kind that needs me the most,” Merlin says, retreating away from the alcove. “A wounded gladiator.”

The emperor stands. “I do like gladiatorial games.”

“I don't,” Merlin says as he puts the instruments of his trade back in his bag. “They provide me with far too many patients...”

“I would have thought you'd appreciate the boost to your business.”

“Not really,” Merlin says, strapping the bag containing his instruments shut. “I prefer to nurture health myself.”

“I understand your position,” says the emperor in an engaged and engaging tone. “Though some of those gladiators aren't victims, but criminals and traitors.”

“That,” Merlin says, shouldering his heavy bag, “still doesn't change my mind, I'm afraid.”

Merlin gives the emperor more detailed instructions as to how to take the medicines he left with him. He means to repeat what he's just said to the emperor's personal slave just to be on the safe side but thinks his message has overall clearly sunk in. He parts from the emperor with a bow and leaves the palace with less fuss than he entered it.  
As he directs his steps away from the Palatine Hill, the types of buildings surrounding him change in nature, shape and appearance.

He leaves behind the huge palatial mansions that house the imperial administration and passes through rows of streets dotted by the sprawling the villas of the aristocracy. Here and there trees and hedges grow, interrupted by walls. In time they too give way to more modest habitations, which, in turn, change into much lowlier dwellings. Wood replaces marble, avenues turn into narrower streets that won't allow for large carriages and litters, and the houses lose their gardens in favour of much more contained urban orchards, little squares that aren't oases of healthy green but rather drab patches of less than earthy brown. 

Darkness falls around Merlin, hiding the bulk of the creaking dwellings surrounding him and making him blind to puddles and obstacles.

A little blindly, Merlin cuts into a side alley that opens onto a larger road almost empty of buildings but for a shack on one side and a large structure at the opposite end. It's the compound attached to Marcellus' gladiator school. 

When he knocks, Merlin is greeted by Marcellus himself. Today Marcellus looks more dishevelled than he had on the day of the games, with dark circles under his eyes looking like pendulous pouches of skin. He's also sporting a couple of days worth of stubble. “Ha, physician, I was expecting you.”

Merlin sidles into the building. “I said I would come.”

Marcellus slams the door behind him and rubs at his scalp. “Well, I have two gladiators on my hands who need your services now. They're my best. You can see why I was keen to get my hands on you.”

Merlin lifts and eyebrow. “I guess I don't have to ask how it happened.”

Marcellus leads him down a corridor flanked either side by niches in which weapons are on display. “I guess you don't.” He shrugs and gestures as he talks. “Nemo brought it down on himself. He refused to fight. Took wounds he shouldn't have. He did roused and defended himself eventually but the beating he took was his fault.”

“If you're so angry with him,” Merlin says as he follows in Marcellus' footsteps. “Why are you paying for my services on his behalf?”

“Because he's one of the best fighters I have,” Marcellus says, his hands up in the air for emphasis. “He isn't as big as some others but you can see he's a trained warrior. The public loves him.”

Merlin sighs. “Of course, they do.”

Marcellus leads him down a flight of stairs. “He hasn't been long with me, but after his first fight the crowds have come to recognise his name...”

“Or absence of one...”

“And they crowd the gates when his is announced,” Marcellus says. “That's why I want you to see him.”

“I'm here to cure people,” Merlin says, as they stop before a door, Marcellus opens for him. “I'd have seen him anyway, beloved of the crowds or no.”

He sees Gwaine first, not so much because that's what he considers wise to do, but because Marcellus ushers him into his room. It's not much bigger than the cell in the bowels of the arena he had occupied when Merlin first met him, but it's much less scantily furnished. The bed at least looks like a proper one, he has little altar at his disposal, figurines of the gods displayed in a row, a desk and a few chairs.

Gwaine smiles when he sees Merlin, calls him by his name rather than 'physician', and appears much more active than he was during their first meeting. He refuses to sit down when Merlin tells him to, and when Merlin does manage to get him to lie down he starts doing crunches. While this tells Merlin that Gwaine is indeed better, the behaviour makes him curious. “Shouldn't you pretend to be worse off so you won't be made to fight?” he asks, as he finally unwraps the bandages on Gwaine's thigh to check the progress of his healing.

Gwaine tilts his head back to take Merlin in. “I will be made to fight sooner or later anyway. I'd rather enjoy life as soon I can when I feel well enough to. It's not something you get to do twice.”

“I suppose not,” Merlin says, trying not to hide the gasp that underlies his words. “You're mostly healed,” he adds, noticing how clean the margins of the cut are now and how the skin has started scabbing over and knitting. “But I won't tell that to your lanista. Not tonight. I'll say you still need some rest.”

“But,” Gwaine sits up. “You can't do that to me, beautiful. I want to go out, see the sun.”

“Please,” Merlin says. “Humour me.”

“I--”

“You can dance in your room,” Merlin says, cocking his head at his surroundings. “You can have company, you can hold a low key party. You can do everything you want. But, please, don't let me send you to the arena before it's strictly necessary.” 

Gwaine says, “You realise you'd be lying?”

“Strictly speaking,” Merlin says, “I wouldn't be. Even though you've been lucky and your wound is closing nicely, you lost blood. A lot of it. You're not at the top of your game.”

Gwaine exhales loudly. “I'll do as you say if you promise to come check up on me again.”

Merlin is washing his hands in the basin by the bed, when he says, “I would have anyway.” He smiles. “Besides I have acquired another patient here, Nemo, so I have reason to call.”

“Oh,” Gwaine says, in a loaded tone Merlin wants to decrypt but is unable to. “Nemo.”

The second door opens to a swathe of candle light and fluid shapes on a narrow slice of a bed. Since this space is much darker than Gwaine's room, all subtle ombre colours, and whirling brushes of a murky brown, Merlin can's see much. Given that Merlin's vision hasn't adjusted yet, it's the noises that alert him to what is going on. It's the grunts and the hurried breathing that tell the tale.

By the time Merlin has conneteced the dots enough to retreat, two things have happened. Marcellus has once again locked the door on him and his eyes have become used to the lower lighting so that he can now see. 

The gladiator Merlin clearly recognises from two days ago and remembers for his valour lies sprawled on a narrow bed. A lady with long hair falling back over her shoulders in dark-honeyed curls sits atop him. He's pushing up and up into her with falutless continuity while she laughs, a rippling sound interspersed by moans, and throws her head back.

Her stole and tunic have been lowered but not removed, so Merlin is spared being made too much of a voyeur of. Still, his flesh heats and his face gets scalding hot by the time he manages to clear his throat and actually say, “I'd come back later but I was locked in.”

“I'm--” Nemo says between grunts, “finishing.”

Merlin can bet he is. His breathing is shot and his hips are moving jerkily, the crescendo punctuated by the creaking of the bed.

The lady riding Nemo moans, a sound like a trill, joyous and ecstatic, higher and higher.

Merlin knocks on the door, but nobody opens. Since that way out is precluded, he keeps his head turned and his eyes closed, his cheeks smarting. He concentrates on something else, something that isn't the duo copulating a few paces away from him. 

The well vision lends itself well to calm but the moment Merlin focuses his inner eye on it, it dissolves. Brigid and Onuava stand together before him instead, their robes trailing to the grass, merging with it. They kiss and embrace. Their hair grows and becomes like roots that thrust into the earth. Their tresses interlink, connecting them in a knot that has a living, breathing pulse. 

It matches the pulse of Merlin's heart. The ochre ground shakes with it and cracks, spits perfect globes of fire that spilt in halves, birthing a faceless man who walks towards him.

A pleased loud sigh tears Merlin from his vision and back to reality. 

The lady vaults off Nemo and turns around. “Are you the new physician?” she says, walking towards him. Her breasts are still bare, pale and round, her nipples the colour of a rose blooming on a thorn. “You should fix him. He's a great stud but wounds like his take their toll. I like him healthy.”

“I would try and cure him regardless,” Merlin says, his eyes briefly falling on Nemo, who's nude, his blond hair darkened to the colour of wet wheat by the perspiration soaking his skin, his chest still flushed with the exertion of sex, his cock limp between his legs, wet with her. He averts his gaze, though he doesn't know why since he's seen many a naked body before. “That's my job. I believe in it.”

The lady traces his cheek with her finger. “You are a sweet physician.”

Nemo grunts and shifts. “Leave the man be, Sophia.”

“Pity you think I should,” Sophia says, pulling her tunic back up so that the sleeves sit back on her shoulders in ripples of fabric so fine that it sings as it shifts. “He's beautiful too.”

“He's a physician, Sophia,” Nemo says, his voice much more level though somewhat hollow. “Not your style.”

“You're right,” she says, tapping her chin, though Merlin still feels as though she might proposition him directly, and not via Nemo, this time. “And anyway I'll have to go. My husband is waiting for me.” She picks up the delicate white and purple stola she must at some point have dumped at the foot of the bed and rearranges it on herself. “He'll want to hear the details.” She winks at Merlin. “He always does.”

“I-- um,” Merlin says, making for the bed the man's lying on so he can get on with his examination, “had better do my job.”

With her fist loosely formed, Sophia raps on the door in a rapid pattern of three swift knocks that have something of the prearranged about them. The door opens and she leaves with a swish of fabric, her smell, one which is both heady and subtly herbal the only reminder of her presence.

Merlin and Nemo are now alone in the room, the shifting of tumblers in the lock telling Merlin he's isn't going anywhere. Not that he would go walkabout anyway. He has a patient to see to.

“Do you think that was advisable?” Merlin says, immediately taking in the visible wounds on his patient. There is a round little hole in his chest, something clearly made by a lance, that must surely be a great source of pain. The left shoulder is swollen and, chafed red with inflammation, and spotted purple with bruises, a network of them that spiral in streaks and lines like fine branches, a web of would-be veins. “It looks to me,” he adds, “like it's a miracle you're alive at all. That kind of extertion...”

“Will do what?” Nemo asks, his lips sticking out in annoyance. “The sex itself wasn't going to kill me.”

“Are you of Gwaine's school of thought then?” Merlin asks, as he places both palms either side of Nemo's neck. He's hot like coals and his skin is clammy to the touch. The glands in his neck are twice the normal size too. 

“Gwaine?” Nemo says, his lips thinning. “No. Not at all.”

Sensing that Nemo isn't enjoying the small talk, Merlin cuts it short. “You have a fever,” he says. “And that's probably because of that wound there.”

“Then either do something about it or don't.”

“I thoroughly intend to make you better,” Merlin says, counting the cuts, scrapes and scratches on the man's body. “It'll take me a while though.”

“I'm not going anywhere, am I?” Nemo says, turning his head to the wall.

Merlin gets down to business. He feels Nemo's shoulder with both his fingers and the heel of his hand. He can hear cracks and pops even without leaning in close. “It got dislocated, didn't it?” 

“Yes,” Nemo says. "Marcellus put it back in himself."

Merlin steps back. “I'm going to clean and bandage the wound and give you a potion for the fever.”

Nemo makes a noise in his throat. It could be a cough but Merlin thinks he's scoffing. 

“It'll work,” Merlin says, not only because he knows it will, but because he doesn't like how dismissive Nemo just was.

“Do your job then.”

Merlin prepares the potion first. He means to knock his patient out as he did Gwaine, but Nemo refuses the concoction. “Just clean the wound,” he instructs, curt, clipped, clearly expecting to be obeyed.

Obstinately pushing a cup towards him, Merlin says, “This'll help.”

“I don't want anything that will make me sleep,” Nemo says, clamping his lips together. He grows tense too, his muscles standing out, his eyes becoming small, opaque. The reaction is so evident, Merlin suspects Nemo's afraid something might happen to him if he has no control over his body. Does he fear assassination, Merlin wonders. He can't be sure that's the case or that his patient has any grounds to. After all, Merlin's been called in to look after him. But however that is, he doesn't want to be a further source of anxiety for Nemo. 

Though Merlin can't perform his spell while his patient is awake, he doesn't have the heart to refuse him what he wants. “All right,” he says, putting the cup away. “I'll do what I can, but it'll hurt.”

“I'm used to things hurting.”

“I'm sorry that's the case,” Merlin says, approaching the bed again. “No man should be subjected to this.”

Nemo's head snaps towards him, his eyes wide. “You do believe that?”

“I'm not in the habit,” Merlin says, dragging a stool close and sinking onto it, “of airing opinions I don't believe in.”

Nemo huffs, but he doesn't turn his head away again. Instead he watches as Merlin slowly and methodically cleans his wound, first with water and then with a dry powder a seer once gave him the recipe for. When Merlin probes and pours clean water over the wound, Nemo winces and hisses, but doesn't make any more noise than that.

“I'm doing my best to be gentle,” Merlin says, softening his touch even more, “but I do have to remove the dirt and clotted blood.”

“I wasn't complaining,” Nemo says, tipping his head back in a defiant, proud gesture.

“I'll give you something to bite on when I have to stitch you,” Merlin says, meeting pained but extremely alert, clever blue eyes. “And my offer of a potion still stands.”

“No,” Nemo says, thrusting his chin out as he did in the arena. “Just do what you have to.”

“If you let me give you the potion,” Merlin says, in a slow and calm voice, the one he uses on children and the very stubborn, “I promise I will guard you in your sleep.”

“Why should I trust you?” Nemo asks, wetting cracked lips. “I don't know you.”

“That's true,” Merlin says because he can't not acknowledge that point. “You don't. And though of course you'll believe I'm lying, I'll say this because I can't not. I won't let anything happen to you.”

Nemo watches him closely as if by doing so he can find the clue to Merlin's honesty or lack thereof. “No.”

Merlin exhales. “All right,” he says. “I'll do what you want, but I still think that's not a good idea.”

“Take it as read,” Nemo says wearily.

As Merlin stitches him up, Nemo breathes heavily. Sometimes he braces his feet against the mattress and his body tenses wholesale. He goes pale too but utters not a whimper. Other than to say, “Talk,” that is, in a very no nonsense, haughty manner.

As he sews flaps of skin together, Merlin talks. At first fishing for a subject is hard. He doesn't want to talk about the weather as he did with Gwaine. He doesn't know why but that'd feel wrong here with Nemo. And he doesn't want to talk about anything personal. Politics seem trivial. So Merlin talks about a spring that was close to his home village, describes it as it's been preserved in his memory, detailing the way it's steeped in silence, how it would sparkle in summer, the water like diamonds, and the beauties that surround it: the stole of flowers covering it, iridescent and soft, the butterflies that would land on them, forming a carpet of gossamer blue, their wings thrumming with the beat of the world.

“It sounds impossibly beautiful,” Nemo says, his Adam's apple plunging, his voice tinged with pain and drowsiness.

“It exists,” Merlin says, briefly looking up from his handiwork to meet eyes that sparkle as much as the wings of the butterflies Merlin had seen as a child. Merlin knows that the fever has made Nemo's eyes appear so, but he can't help but find the sight arresting. He swallows. “I swear it's true. I'm not just... making it up to distract you or anything.”

“I believe you,” Nemo says, his gaze resting on Merlin's, penetrating, appreciative, way less cold than before. “I believe you,” he repeats before falling silent again.

As Merlin rounds off his stitching, Nemo's breathing normalises, so much so that when Merlin gazes away from the wound, he finds that Nemo's eyes have closed and that he's fallen asleep. Either that or he's fainted with nary a sound.

Given the state he's in, Merlin doesn't consider that too bad of an outcome and rather a kind of blessing. He finishes his work quickly. Wound sutured, he dabs at and cleans all the cuts on Nemo's body he can find and works salve on his sand burns. With slow movements designed not to wake Nemo, he bandages the torso wound too. He's leaning over his patient so he can move him the little bit necessary to immobilise his shoulder, when Nemo catches hold of his hand. “What are you doing?” he says, squeezing hard, so much so Merlin has to stifle a yelp. 

“Stabilising your shoulder.”

The grip around his hand slackens. “Oh” Nemo says, rubbing his lips together. “I'm sorry, I--”

“I promise I won't jostle you too much.” Merlin smiles a rather silly smile meant to both amuse and reassure. “I have quite the magic touch, I promise.”

“You consider yourself that good of a physician?” Nemo asks, challengingly, with fire in his tone and in his eyes, as though he wants to prompt as vivid a reaction in Merlin. He hasn't let go of his hand either.

“I'm a very good one,” Merlin says, not letting himself be cowed into selling himself short. “I had excellent teachers.” With a stab of regret, he frees his hand from Nemo's grasp. “Let me prove to you just how good I am.”

After having extracted fresh supplies of linen bandages out of his bag, Merlin sits on the bed and starts wrapping them around Nemo's chest. When the time comes to work the material around him, Merlin leans Nemo against him. 

Nemo is weak enough that he stays put, breathing puffily and warmly against Merlin's neck, his forehead settling against his shoulder, warm through the cloth of Merlin's shirt, impossibly human in his fragility. “One more loop,” Merlin says, patting Nemo on the back, a little lingeringly perhaps. “And we're done,” he says, as he ties together the opposite ends of the linen strips.

Nemo grunts. “You took your time.”

“I ensured this was done well,” Merlin says, placing both hands on Nemo's forearms and gently pushing him back for a lie down. “With your job it won't do to have a weak joint.”

“Job,” Nemo says, closes his eyes as he rests against the pillow. “Job.”

“Well then,” Merlin says, standing. “I'm quite done with you.”

Eyes shut, Nemo says, “I thought so and yet you're still here.”

“Yes, well,” Merlin says, casting his gaze down. “I'll pack up and be gone.”

When Merlin's slipped all odds and ends back in his leather medical bag, he picks it up and says, “I'll wish you a good night.”

Nemo opens one eye only. “Will you come back?” he says, breathless and a little red about the face. “To remove the stitches,” he adds hastily, garbled and rough, his voice much more accented than usual.

“Of course, I will,” Merlin says, though Marcellus hasn't requested a follow-up visit. If it comes for free, Merlin supposes, Marcellus won't mind. “It's part of the job.”

Only now does Nemo pull the sheet back up, covering a nudity he hasn't seemed conscious of up till now. He grunts, shivers, and says, “Not that I'm looking forward to that.”

“Of course not,” Merlin says, before knocking on the door so he can be let out too. “Of course not.”

 

****

 

The hyssop shrubs shake in the wind on their long woody stems, whispering as they quiver. Their leaves seek the sun; their flowers a burst of pink and blue. They release a powerful smell, deep and fragrant, pungent.

As he bends over to cut some bulbs, it climbs up Merlin's nostrils. The flowers come undone in his hands, a sandy powder that colours Merlin's fingers purple. He stashes his takings in his satchel, snaps a few stems, moves on.

His eyes shuttered against the sun, Merlin wades amid the tall grass, his hands brushing against its blades. He finds the oak tree. It looms over a clearing, tall and wide both, reaching for the sky. He puts his satchel down. With his knife he scrapes some of the bark off the tree, pours it in a pouch whose strings he draws up carefully, hangs the pouch from the belt that cinches his tunic.

Tipping his head back, he looks up towards the top, where the branches extend and the trunk thins. The sun pierces the canopy of leaves in speckled dabs. Patting the bark, Merlin sits at the base of the tree.

He slits his eyes against the mottled play of sunlight on his face and sees quite another clearing in a distant land, emerald grass soughing, the sky above the deepest of blues, the taste of see on the air, on his tongue. He has a vision of himself as a child, chasing dragonflies across the fallow fields, up a slope, up a cliff that plunges sharply down to sea, crags soaring up from the surf, the horizon a line seagulls burr. He's young and gangly in the memory, all elbows and knees, but his shoulders are thrown back and his head is held high.

When she appears walking the ether, Brigid kisses him on the lips, soft and lingering. She tastes like the earth, like fruit, like the world coming into bloom. “You're blessed,” she says. “The blessing comes from the earth, for you to do great things with.”

His eyes burn, scald, more fiercely than ever before. Merlin doesn't address her, she's the goddess after all. But he holds her gaze and wonders, sinks into the depths of her eyes, blue like the sea in summer and grey like the sky in winter, like the mists that envelop the sacred woods. He rushes headlong into the swirling blur of their depths.

When a bee buzzes in his ear, Merlin wakes with a jostle, breathes in the air, looks up to establish that the sun has climbed. With a push he's off the ground. 

He roams the woods, gathers borage for fevers and calendula for skin rashes. He amasses fennel for the eyes, and scoops up poppies for their juice. When his satchel is full to the brim, he considers his work done and retraces his steps towards the city.

He stops at midday, out on a wheat-covered hill, Rome spreading out in the distance, sprawling on its seven hills, the Tiber cutting through it. The sun shines on roofs of red tile, on the vast solemn marble buildings, and on the wooden shacks, the warehouses. He takes in the view, both familiar thanks to years of contemplation, and still vaguely alien. He thinks of the multitudes living there, the rich and the poor, the honest and the corrupt, the healthy and the infirm. Finally, he spares a thought for his patients at the gladiator school, wishes them elsewhere, home, wherever that is, and not prey to a system that only produces death. 

The thought cuts his breath short.

He blinks, sees a sparrow in flight, smiles and knows his course.

He enters Rome following the Cassia route, and stops at his home, a little flat on the top floor of an insula in the Aventine hill, where houses crowd each other just as the masses of their inhabitants do, five, six per room. 

His building has a courtyard, a slice of greenery and life that decided Merlin to rent here rather than elsewhere. Tabernae occupy ground floor. They have their uses too.

He buys wine, bread and pickled anchovies. He sits on the walkway that overlooks the courtyard, his legs sticking out from between the gaps in the railing, a stone's throw from his open door, and has a quick lunch before setting out for his afternoon rounds.

In the compound's courtyard gladiators are training. Their gladi sing in the wind and clash against round shields. Nets flash in the sunlight as sweating men slam them at their opponents. Heavy practice weapons thud against targets, posts made of wood and straw mannequins that come in human shape. Chaff flies at each hit; the timbers moan. Instructors yell at the top of their lungs as the new recruits learn the secrets of their new trade. They are being taught to fight in specific styles, close combat, charioteering, wrestling. Merlin sees examples of each art as the gladiators flit around the courtyard, grunting, lunging, doing push-ups.

Merlin has crossed most of it, avoiding the whirling bodies, when the gigantic gladiator Merlin had first seen in the arena a few days ago blocks his path.

Merlin swallows. “I was heading towards the cells.”

“I noticed,” Mountain Man interrupts him, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a child chided by their master. “I just wanted to thank you for fixing Gwaine.”

Merlin feels his muscles relax. “I did my best. I'm glad he's better, sir.”

“My stage name is Montanus,” the gladiator says. “But my real name is Percival.”

“Percival,” Merlin says, clapping him on the forearm, finding coils of unyielding muscle that feel like iron. “I was only glad I could help.”

“We're worth a lot as fighters,” Percival says with an earnest frown. “But once we're down or not able to do battle in the arena, we don't hold the same value anymore. I'm just glad you did your best by Gwaine even if he wasn't in good form.”

“I'll never consider a man's worth in those terms,” Merlin says, looking up at Percival. “No matter what the world thinks.”

“You're a rare man,” Percival says, bobbing his head as if confirming the notion to himself. “If you ever need anything, consider me your man.”

Merlin quickly tips his head back, exhales. “That's..." He doesn't mean to pick Percival up on the offer, but he doesn't want to offend either. "... knowing this means a lot to me.”

“I may be not be my own person,” Percival says, toying with his belt, eyes down, “but I'm a man of my word.”

Merlin clears his throat, but before he can find the right words, Percival is summoned away by a strident trainer, who orders him to run ten laps of the compound. Kicking up dust with his heels, he's gone.

Tearing his gaze away from his dwindling form, Merlin knocks on the door that gives access to the interior of the school. A servant boy opens. 

“Marcellus didn't summon you,” the boys says, expression sly, as though he knows something Merlin doesn't.

“I've come to check on my patients,” Merlin says, shouldering his way past the boy, using his superior bulk to ensure he gets his way. He shouldn't do that to a mere scrap of a boy, thinner even than Merlin ever was, but then again he has a duty here.

“I'll go and ask,” the boy says, skipping back towards the interior of the compound. “Stay here.”

Merlin does. He waits in the shadows, the light of a torch flaring outwards and around him, shedding its glow and its warmth in steady waves. He taps his foot, paces and murmurs to himself.

At last the lanista appears, eating an apple off the end of a knife. “I didn't request your services.”

“I know,” Merlin says, “but I need to check on my patients.”

“I don't require that service,” Marcellus says, the juices of the apple staining his chin.

Merlin says, “Your patients do.”

Marcellus grunts. “They're alive. I'm fine with the status quo.”

Merlin smiles wide, exposing his gums. “You're the first of my 'customers' to ever turn down a free check up.”

“Free?” Marcellus says, chewing the pulp of the fruit with his mouth open. “Now that sounds interesting.”

“Yes,” Merlin says with a roll of his shoulders. “Follow up is something I always offer for free. It's a matter of professionalism.”

“Right,” Marcellus says, making way for him. “In that case.”

Gwaine, Merlin finds upon examination, is completely healed. Merlin can scarcely retrace the ghost of the wound on his flesh. Colour is high on his cheeks and there's a glow in his eyes that speaks of merriment and good health. His heartbeat is strong and steady too, neither too quick nor too slow. If there is anyone who doesn't need his services in the whole of Rome, that's Gwaine. 

Merlin gives him a powder that will help him regain his strength and trades barbs with him while he instructs him on how to take it. When he parts from him, Gwaine is still sniggering at a joke he told himself.

It's Nemo Merlin finds to be worse off. When he enters, the man doesn't rouse. When Merlin touches his brow, it's burning. Although Merlin talks to him, he doesn't answer. He does make a few sounds, but nothing intelligible makes it past his mouth. “You had to go and make it impossible for me to heal you,” Merlin says, tutting at the insensate man. “It figures that you got worse while I wasn't looking.”

With all haste, he makes a potion compounded of tree bark and feverfew. As he works at it, he calls himself glad he went and stocked up right that morning. When the potion's ready, he leaves it to settle and walks over to Nemo's bedside.

With a small surgical knife he points downwards, he opens a cut in his own palm, a shallow trickle of a line, one that wells up with blood, red like a rose's petals. He winces but doesn't concentrate on the prickle of pain he's subjected himself to. With his good hand, he picks up Nemo's. It's limp, the fingers curled inwards, like a brace of coals on Merlin's cool flesh. The blade shakes for a second before it sinks into the quick of Nemo's skin, severing tissue, finding blood. When it bubbles forth, Merlin presses his and Nemo's palms together.

As their blood mixes together, Merlin's eyelids flicker. Splashes of images play before his eyes, lances pointed to the sky, towards a round moon that shines over a forest. Towers high, sitting a top a hill, red cloaks billowing in the wind. 

Though the images come as a surprise and are something he can't avoid plunging in, he does his best to stay focused. In a language he still calls his own despite having used Latin for years, Merlin delivers a little chant, a susurration, no more, and drops the hand. With a few more words he heals the gashes so that not a trace of them remains.

The bulk of the ritual seen to, Merlin places both hands either side of Arthur's face and closes his eyes. He seeks the roots of Nemo's malady with all his senses. He lands in a desert that scorches his skin and burns his irises. The wind howls with baritonal chants, whispers of words in languages Merlin doesn't understand, sibilant all. Vultures fly overhead in circles that grow tighter and tighter. Earth and sky scream. Ravens heed its call, their shadows shifting on the ground. 

With a roar like thunder, the earth cracks in jagged fracture lines. The cracks spread and eat at the dry earth, deep dark abysses forming. Merlin runs as the cracks widen, dog his footsteps, but however much he speeds up, the abyss catches up with him. He falls.

He plunges downwards, precipitating fast, goes down for miles and miles. And still he's hurled downwards, banks of earth closing in on him in pulsating flashes of red and brown. Winded, body half broken, he lands on hard ground. He looks up, can't see the yellow sky or taste the brittle dry air of the desert above. He cries out, but his cries are drowned by the earth.

Laboriously, he picks himself up. He breathes hard, adjusting to the shadows. He's no sooner done than the monster appears. It has hooves and a tail, horns on its bull head. His eyes have no pupils and his tongue is blood red. The creature advances.

“Begone,” Merlin yells, spreading his hand out in front of him. “Leave this body.”

But the monster steps forwards and with each step the ground shakes. 

“You have no business here,” Merlin repeats, “get thee gone.”

The creature snarls, huffs, its malodorous breath poisoning the air, charges.

Before it can impact him, its horn piercing his flesh, the goddess appears, hair floating upwards, her tunic dripping tears of water, sprouts of greenery. “You must unlock all your power, even the parts you didn't know you had. And give your all.”

The words merging one into the other, Merlin incants, but it's not enough and the horns pierce him, pinning him to the rock behind him, his blood rinsing it crimson.

“Your all, Merlin.”

“I can't,” Merlin says, blood bubbling from his mouth.

“Of course you can,” Brigid says, her eyes glowing. “If you look at me.”

Merlin sinks into blues and greens, hears the beat of a wing, the pulse of a heart. Another. Merlin shouts “Begone!” in a voice like the ocean, profound and all-encompassing.

The monster throws its head back and releases a cry of anguish that seems to rip through the fabric of the world.

A gasp slipping past his lips, Merlin startles. Nemo is lying there on his cot. He's no longer as pale as snow. Twin spots of colour bloom on his skin, like peaches on a branch. His breathing is more regular, with fewer catches and bumps in it. He looks like one of the living again.

Merlin palms Nemo's forehead, finds it hot but its warmth doesn't burn his skin with its searing touch. 

Though Merlin feels hollow at the core, diminished, he smiles brilliantly. “I think you're past the worst now,” he says, not losing his grin, though it's hard to maintain it, his muscles hurting, his body folding in on itself.

Hunching, he sits on the bed and at Nemo's feet, his back to the wall for support. He starts talking then, to keep Nemo company, to guide him back to him. Hollowed out as he is, his tale must make no sense, but he guesses that's not the point at all. So, although his voice becomes gritty and raw, he goes on and on.

He tells Nemo things he has never told anyone before. About his childhood and his gods, his dearest memories and fondest wishes. He confesses to his healing power, details its workings, though, he says it's mostly instinctual. He opens his hand, lights fire in his palm. “Just like this,” he murmurs, as he watches a reel of fay fires play out on his hand.

Nemo falls into deeper sleep; his chest takes to rising and falling with patient regularity. As he snores, he whistles through his nose and Merlin smiles. “Glad you're having a nice nap.”

When the last of the light retreats from the cell, Merlin lights a candle, cupping the flame so it has a chance to take, whispering a word of power so it won't die. 

“You talked me back to life,” Nemo says, causing Merlin to jump away from the table.

“You're awake.”

“You led me back here,” Nemo says, a frown on on his brow, his eyes bright and round, full of wonder. “I was walking in the shadows, I saw standing stones and this veil of bright lights. But then I heard you and I wanted to listen to what you had to say.”

Merlin gulps, his guts knot. “I only sat here with you. I did nothing more.”

“You talked to me,” Nemo says, insistent, his mouth pursed, his lips pushed out in contradiction. “I distinctly remember hearing your voice.”

“And what did I say?” Merlin says, uneasy laughter edging his voice.

Nemo's gaze pools on Merlin, searching. He rubs his lips together, drops his eyes. “Nothing,” he says, as he pokes at the stitches that secure the lining of his sheet. “I couldn't make out what you said.”

“You had a fever,” Merlin tells him, moving over to sit next to him. “You had dreams.”

“But you were there,” Nemo tells him, puffing his cheeks out and blowing out air. “It was you who...”

“You were delirous,” Merlin says, giving him the potion he prepared. He puts the cup on the floor and settles with his back to the wall. His feet are on the floor, Nemo's bulk a few inches from him, radiating warmth, leaking humanity. “And I watched you. I might have muttered a few things to myself. I do ramble on and on sometimes. That's what you must have heard.”

“I walked dream worlds,” Nemo says, lips wet with Merlin's brew. “Saw places I've never been.”

“That must have been lovely.”

“Especially by contrast.”

Merlin's head whips up. “To where you were before, you mean?”

“Yes,” Nemo says, his eyelids flickering, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. “It was dark and foul. There was no air, no space. Stones sat on my chest, satyrs danced on them, and dogs chased at their heels, baying loudly, so loudly I thought my ears would tear and bleed.”

“My people say,” Merlin says with some hesitance, “that Arubianus, God of the underworld, is responsible for dreams of that kind.”

“We call him Arawn,” Nemo says, bolstering himself against the pillows. “And his hounds the Cŵn Annwn.”

The stab of familiarity hits Merlin in the diaphragm. For a brief spell that passes as quickly as it came, he wants to ask Nemo about his gods and his native land, the traditions he grew up with. They must have been not too dissimilar from Merlin's. But soon Merlin realises that wouldn't be fair, not with how much he's hiding himself. Shadows must concede to shadows. “Well, I'm glad you left the nightmare world behind,” Merlin says, something that is both true and appropriate. Forgetting himself, he pats Nemo's foot before quickly retracting his hand.

“That was because I'd rather step in your world,” Nemo says, shifting in bed. “I could see it so clearly, as though I was there. The cliffs and the fields, as green as those of my own homeland, the camp-fires and the fortified villages, men with long beards and women with hair plaited in a myriad tresses, all of them sitting around me, telling me the secret of their lore.”

All breath is stolen from Merlin's lungs, his ribcage shrinking and crushing them. From the corners of his eyes, he can see that vision too, knows it for a memory of one night long ago that Merlin, all of thirteen, spent listening to the sacred verses, the words writing themselves on his heart. As the recitation went on and on, marks wove around his skin like fire. Merlin had gazed at the stars then and fallen in love with his land, and the goddess too. The secret, they said, the secret is now in your skin and your guts. The secret is yours to carry, as one of us. That was a night Merlin will never forget. 

Quickly dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve as though it's sweat he's clearing up, Merlin manages a smile, one that stretches his lips thin and hurts a little too. “It must have been a nice dream,” he says, swallowing all the spit in his mouth. 

“Yes,” Nemo says, stabbing Merlin with his gaze, both soft and demanding, though Merlin can't say what he's asking for. “I wanted to stay.”

“I can't say I wouldn't have loved to experience a dream like that,” Merlin says, with a brittleness to his voice he shouldn't have allowed.

A brief spell of silence falls between them. All Merlin can hear is footsteps from outside and the guttering of the candle.

“Tell me a story,” Nemo commands, nudging his foot against Merlin's thigh. “Since apparently you told me none before, I'm sure you owe me one.”

A story?” Merlin asks feebly, doubting he can come up with one that's completely imaginary.

“A story,” Nemo confirms, sitting up, clasping his hands above the coverlet. “You must know some.”

“I suppose,” Merlin says.

“Proceed then.” Nemo waves him on with a lazy and yet imperious motion of his hand.

“All right,” Merlin says, finding he can't refuse Nemo, whether it be because of his tone, or that aura he exudes – as though his expectations must be fulfilled – Merlin doesn't know. “A story, you say.”

Merlin talks till dawn.

 

*****

 

Over the next few days Merlin tells Nemo plenty of tales; traditional ones from his childhood, stories he saw recited at court, and embellished gossip overheard on the street, in the suburra where the poor throng small overcrowded houses. When Merlin exhausts that source, he starts bringing over scrolls he borrows from his richer, more literary patrons. Painstakingly copied by slaves so skilled they can write in the clearest of hands, they're probably worth more than he is, but they're a treasure trove in terms of new fictional fodder. Nemo likes them all, all sorts of fantastical accounts find him an eager listener.

He enjoys myths featuring heroes and tasks they have to perform, anecdotes of moral duty and courage, with an epic sweep and focus on troubled mankind. Farces make him smile and laugh and snort, especially those of Plautus, with their array of slaves, concubines, soldiers, and pimps. He likes the jokes, the lighter the better, though he also sniggers at the raunchy ones. Aside from that Nemo displays an appreciation for the histories, especially those by Sallust, Polybius and Livy. For some reason, though, his countenance hardens at all mentions of Caesar and Britannia.

Overall Nemo is very demanding when it comes to his story telling time. Once Merlin has checked up on him and established that his patient is indeed on the road to recovery, their routine begins. Nemo lifts an imperious brow and waits for Merlin to find a comfortable perch.

Obediently, Merlin talks and talks, or reads out loud, till he has to drink or wet his lips, till his fingertips are sore with papyri cuts. Nemo interjects a comment or two, lacing them with short bursts of laughter when he finds something funny. On the other hand he grows serious when other, weightier topics come up, as if he's considering an issue, giving it proper thought, until he's weighed it from all possible angles.

He frowns and hums then, narrows his eyes, gets much more solemn, his mouth pinched just so.

Invariably when Merlin's narration has come to an end, he asks for one more story, even when it's late at night and the moon is so far up as to have sailed past its mid point. 

That particular night Merlin gingerly rolls up his borrowed scrolls and lays them by in his satchel, when Nemo says, “There must be more to that story.”

Merlin tells him that he's finished for the day, that he has come to the end of the scroll, and that he'll have to borrow the next part when he sees Sextus Didius. Before that he can't tell how the story ends.

“Make it up then, how it goes.”

“I'm no story teller.”

“You'll do,” Nemo says, shadows playing smiles around his lips. “You can't go just yet.”

“All right,,” Merlin says with a put upon sigh, even though he doesn't find the request to be quite as taxing as he's making it out to be. He shows Nemo the little wheel pendant that he has around his neck. “I'll tell you about Taranis, the god of thunder.”

That week Merlin visits the gladiator school almost every night. He can't during the day because he has quite a number of other patients, some of them in dire condition, and Nemo is no longer critical, but twilight is his time for making a call.

The first few nights Merlin meets no one in his jaunts over but the boy who's often let him in. Sometimes, he catches a glimpse of Marcellus, but Marcellus does nothing but raise an eyebrow at him and go on about his business, as though Merlin doesn't count or is of no interest to him.

On the third and fourth day of his second week in attendance he runs into Sophia. On the latter occasion she actually stops and talks to him 

“Oh,” she says, with all the bored nonchalance of the true aristocrat, “you're here.” And though she's treating him with sufficiency, or an approximation of it evident in the wrinkles of her nose, Merlin can't help but admire her.

Her face is smooth and soft looking, with a hint of mischief in her eyes. Despite its irreverent light, her features are still reminiscent of those of a beautiful child, and as sweet. The size of her nose, the symmetry of her lips, the roundness of her cheekbones and mouth make her look like some work of art, a votive statuette perhaps, dancing on waves with the winds of spring in her hair. 

Her stola is ornate, of such a pale blue it could lace a summer sky. Her earrings are as big as a bunch of grapes, the brilliant shiny stones set in a lamina of gold that warms her skin peach.

“Yes, indeed,” Merlin says, coughing into his fist.

“I came here to bring him his food,” she says, lifting the basket she's carrying. It's half empty, but inside it Merlin spots two loaves of bread wrapped in a cloth, still fresh and fragrant and smelling like a bakery, a few jars, rounded fruit with glossy, porous peel, and a netful of oysters, rugged and grey. “He ate quite a lot though he didn't finish...”

Merlin nods, doesn't think anyone could have actually swallowed such a feast in one sitting. “He's getting better. Probably needs his strength back.”

As though they aren't talking food and the progress Merlin's patient's making, she says, “He won't have sex with me.”

Merlin's skin pinpricks with heat about the cheekbones and neck. For a moment he flounders for a rejoinder, then settles on: “He's only recovering. I'm sure that once he's all right, his... libido will make a come back, for sure.”

“I don't think it's a matter of that,” she says, eyes dancing like her eyebrows. 

Merlin is gauging whether it would be wise to enquire further, but she pre-empts him; in a manner of speaking she dumbfounds him. Placing a cherry from her basket against his lips, she says “Open,” until Merlin does, so that the tart taste of the delicacy hits sharp on his tongue.

“Your lips are stained red now,” Sophia observes, brushing a thumb against them, left to right. Then with a little chuckle that rumbles in her chest, she adds, “I'd do this with my mouth, but Nemo wouldn't like it.”

“Um, I--” Merlin is trying to think, parse what the lady has said, but somehow the gist of Sophia's message has scrambled his brain and he finds he can't.

“Well,” she says, tearing herself away with a little sigh that appears half affected, half genuine, “I must be gone, I've got a party to attend." She lifts her hand, wriggles her fingers. “So long then.”

When her footsteps have stopped echoing, Merlin spits the cherry's stone and enters Nemo's cell.

“Good evening to you, Nemo,” Merlin says as brightly as he can, wishing the high colour Sophia's words whipped into his face to go away. “How are you doing tonight?”

Nemo is sitting up, arms folded in his lap, his hair clean, his cheeks pink. His eyes shine with some kind of amused awareness that sets Merlin on edge. “Fine, much better, little thanks to you though. You're not a very conscientious doctor.You should have got here sooner. This is not a decent hour for calling.”

Merlin splutters, indignation heightening his blush rather than killing it. “I'll have you know that I set three bones, assisted a woman in childbirth and attended a patient affected by a terrible fever. I think I did what I could!” Merlin has puffed out his cheeks and only when he's finished with his rant does he blow some air out. That's when he gives Nemo a once over, “Why, are you worse off?”

Nemo looks away, tuts. “I'm as strong as a horse. I could run laps around the arena. I was merely remarking on your slackness.”

“First of all I wasn't slack!” Merlin says with more vehemence than he should allow himself when dealing with a recovering patient. “I was giving precedence to my emergency cases and that's the right thing to do. Second of all, no, you couldn't. You're still weak.”

At that Nemo hiccups his indignation, tosses the pile of blankets sitting on top of him off. With a bounce to his step, he stalks up to him. His eyes thin then, and there's a tautness to his facial muscles that tells Merlin he's still in pain, still not fully healed. But for all that Nemo looks striking and menacing, his jaw corded, his muscles taut with underlying power. With his head tilted back and to the side, chin high, he squares his body offf and faces Merlin, as if Merlin is his rival in open combat, his opponent in the arena. “I could have you on your knees in a moment flat.”

“Perhaps,” Merlin says. He's not proud of his physical strength. He's young and has some but he's never thought to boast of something as intangible as all that, something that can be taken away by the whim of an illness or by any sort of accident. He's been schooled to respect other principles, to admire a different set of advantages altogether. He values wisdom above fortune. “But you don't think muscle strength is the only kind there is, do you?”

Nemo's head whips back and his eyes widen at Merlin's words. Merlin knows he's considering his statement, picking it apart. “I do hold wisdom in high esteem,” he says and when he does Nemo is all manners of solemn. His words come out slowly and in a low, thoughtful tone. Merlin would stand in awe of his powers of appreciation, but then Nemo's lips twitch into a smile and he deadpans, “in old men.”

Given the shift in mood, there's no holding back, no trying to stick to a serious discussion. Merlin rolls his eyes and his sleeves up. “Shush, you don't know what you're talking about, clearly. Now lie down and let me examine you.” Merlin waves his hands about to herd Nemo back. When he doesn't, Merlin says, “I wager you think you're so much fitter to taunt me so.”

Nemo smiles. Feet about two feet apart, knees slightly bent, he squares off into a wrestling stance and says, “Prove you're my equal in strength. Come at me.” 

For a moment Merlin considers folding his arms and right out refuse to take part in this absurd contest, but there's a glint in Nemo's eyes that sends off a resounding challenge and for some reason Merlin can't back off, can't even think to. 

Though he understands he must be gentle, he lets himself be pulled into the game. He grabs Nemo by the waist, and, knees firmly locked, tries to push him back. It's like trying to dislodge the colossus of Rhodes, utterly impossible because Nemo is firmly entrenched in his position. 

A wave of indignation floods over Merlin at the thought of being beat so easily. It chafes his skin red, makes his heart stumble in his chest. With more determination than before he reaches his arms out and tries to grab Nemo's torso, his legs. He growls and grunts, working himself into a fine sweat, but Nemo doesn't budge. 

This won't do. Merlin can accept defeat with as much dignity as the next man, but not to put even a dent in Nemo's armour would feed his sense of shame for an appallingly long time. Clinging to that thought, Merlin crouches, so that he's basically hugging Nemo's lower body, looking for an opening to exploit, but he can't say he finds one. 

Even so Merlin doesn't quit, doesn't know how to. The elders of his native village often told him he was too stubborn for his own good. Maybe they were right.

If the nature of his huffed laughter is anything to go by, Merlin's renewed efforts don't seem to impress Nemo at all. 

The more Merlin tries, the more Nemo sticks his chest out, legs firmly planted on the floor, until that is, he grapples with Merlin, grabs him by the wrist, and slips his shoulder under his.

Merlin's perspective of things, the world around him, changes from a moment to the next. Air whooshes around him and he gets an unexpected visual of the ceiling and Nemo's face, looming large and contented, above his. In short he finds himself upside down and pinned to the floor, Nemo straddling him, holding Merlin down by way of a hand placed on his shoulder. 

Nemo grins wolfishly, red about the face, eyes bright, so very bright Merlin thinks the stars have nothing on them, and says, “Do you yield?”

Merlin pushes his lips together, shakes his head. “N-uh.”

Nemo kneads his shoulder, sinks all his weight on top of Merlin, which he apparently hadn't let himself do before, and repeats the same words ike a challenge, like a charm, except now they sound different. They come out much lower for one thing, pushed out with the breath from Nemo's lungs, and there's a ritualistic veneer to them, as though they're part of a re-enactment of some scenario that's already played out in Nemo's imagination.

As he waits for Merlin to throw in the towel, Nemo leans forward, which brings them closer with a shock of body heat, as though he's sitting on top of a bread oven, or on bricks baked in the sun, but without the sharp edges and with all the yield of flesh. 

With a flicker that paints his lashes gold, Nemo's eyelids go down. He goes further, lowers his whole body, so that his face is inches apart from Merlin's, his breath light with fruity scents, fresh scents like a bubbling brook on his lips. His gaze has dropped too, and it's as though he's no longer seeking his answer from Merlin's answering one, but contemplating some other aspect of Merlin's face Merlin can't quite guess at.

For a moment caught in a heartbeat, one that skips painfully, Merlin seeps out of his body. 

Brigid the goddess jumps off her red mare, her pelt russet like autumn, and starts dancing around his well, the well of his visions, skipping and twirling, a fire burning in her hair, orange at its outer edges, yellow at its deepest core. 

When she spots Merlin, she smiles a mysterious smile, one as deep as the earth, ochre and gold.

In one swift move she tears off her crimson habit and her skin glows warm with the fire from her hair, lambent and auburn, burning bright. Her body is perfect, not a blemish on it, like marble, but rose too, and veined with blue, teased pink here and there. She's beauty. 

Her gaze boring in on Merlin's she opens her ribcage from throat to hip and shows him her pulsating heart, red and slick, thudding, thudding, thudding to the rhythm of Merlin's. 

Merlin has barely had time to blink in recognition of reality, his pulse clattering in his chest as Nemo's breath washes upon his mouth, when the door flies open. “Ah, physician," Marcellus says. “I was told you were here.”

“I, yes...” Merlin leans his head back so he has an upside down view of the newcomer. “Yes, I am.”

“Well, good,” Marcellus says, “I was stung by a bee. The bite has swollen and I need some of your medicine.”

“I will be with you presently,” Merlin says, his throat working on a swallow.

Nemo vaults off him and prowls to the other end of his cell, face closed off, eyes smaller and jaw set like steel, harsh, making his face gaunt and sharp in the shadows.

“I'll have to go,” Merlin says, picking himself up, smoothing his tunic, which shows knees made ruddy by the tussle.

Nemo inclines his head. “Yes, you do.”

Marcellus' cubiculim is a floor above Nemo's. It overlooks the courtyard where the gladiators train and is much ampler. 

By day the central window would allow a flood of light in. At the present time though Merlin can only spy a cluster of domestic lights shining on top of the Janiculum. They tear at the uniform darkness of night, at its ponderous veil of blues and purples. 

Candles burning on little pewter plates dented all around show Merlin his surroundings. 

While the décor is simple, the furnishings are solid, sturdy, made to last. The chairs have thick legs, neither spindly nor carved, and the chests are thick and square, not inlaid. There is little concession to art or fashion, no wall paintings, not even the tiniest. No fabric sets apart the alcove space. 

The ornate table, however, looks like it's much more than serviceable. The whorls in the wood and on its surface speak of the artisanal skills of the carpenter who made it. It's pleasing to the eye with its laurel friezes, interlinked blocks of wood of different colours, and shiny veeners. Briefly, Merlin wonders how Marcellus came by it. In a wall niche a few knick-knacks have pride of place, a wooden box, a few statuettes, a little home altar. Above them a wooden sword is mounted, the rudis, the symbol of a gladiator's freedom. 

Merlin comes to a halt when he sees it. Though the object tells him the story of the man he's dealing with, or the bare outlines of it, it's not that tale he's thinking about. 

Rather he contemplates the object in terms of Nemo, what he could do with it if he was gifted with such an item. Nemo seems resilient and resourceful, interested in learning. He could do lots with that freedom. 

For a moment Merlin wishes he could do something to get him it, extend that blessing to him. But he's as powerless in this as he is against the force of the empire. Besides he fears deep down in his guts that Nemo will have to fight to the death to claim that freedom.

“Ten years ago I got that,” Marcellus told him. “Helios the Greek, my lanista, gave it to me after I slayed a lion in the arena.” He taps his shoulder. “Still got the marks from that vile beast.”

“I see,” Merlin says, because he doesn't know what other comment he should make.

“Tiberius saw me in action. He remembered my name.”

“I guess not everybody could say that,” Merlin says, turning away from the display. “To be known by an emperor.”

“Which is why I know what I'm talking about,” says Marcellus, backing towards the bed and rolling up his sleeve.

“I'm sorry,” Merlin says, following Marcellus to the private alcove, “but I'm not sure I understand.”

“I'm a lanista and I was a gladiator,” Marcellus says, offering his arm up for inspection. 

The bee sting is sore and red, elevated at the centre. Merlin can tell that Marcellus has scratched it and made it worse. even so there's nothing alarming about his ailment.“I'll lance this,” Merlin says, knowing patients react better when they're made aware of what is going to happen to them.

“D'you know what that means?”

“I suppose you're not asking about my lancing technique,” Merlin says, arching an eyebrow.

“No.” Marcellus tilts his head to the side and pierces Merlin with his gaze, the white of his eyes shiny in the candlelight. “I'm talking about gladiators.”

Merlin bends over to get a knife and some linens from his satchel so he can proceed with the lancing. “About gladiators?”

“Look, let's call it like it is,” says Marcellus not flinching when Merlin cuts into his skin. “You would like to fuck a gladiator, my gladiator likes you and wants to fuck you back. That's fine.”

Merlin's brow pinches, his fingers betray a little shake. A breath out, he dabs at the blood and fluid that overflow from the cut he traced along the infected bump. “I'm sure you mistook what you saw. That was just some rough-housing.”

“Roughousing my arse,” says Marcellus. “And frankly I don't give a fig what you call it. All I'm saying is, you want time with my gladiator? You're gonna pay for it, like Sophia Pulchra does.”

“I--” Merlin splutters, looks up, mouth open. “I'm just making sure he's fine. As his physician. Possibly a friend... A friendly doctor, but that's really all that it is... our relationship.”

“You see, we're not on the same page here,” Marcellus says, watching as Merlin extracts the bee's stinger and wraps the little cut up. “I don't care how you see it. The way I see it is this. You patched him up. I don't need your services anymore. Either you pay or I'll have you kicked out every time you turn up.”

“But he will still need some help with that shoulder.” Merlin thinks those are pretty valid grounds for an appeal. He refuses to dwell on what else Marcellus said, about his desires, or what Nemo would think if he overheard this. Even as he baulks at the concept, at the slight on his professionalism, he feels his lungs get all cut up and his heart overflow with blood. “Those injuries take time to heal. It will take a while to make him fighting fit.”

“I'm unshakable on this,” Marcellus says, one eye narrowed, the other not.

Merlin steps back, his blood pulsing in ears. “You want to be paid just so I can see him?”

“Most decidedly.” Marcellus pulls his leave down. “Take it or leave it.”

Merlin is sure that something like this has never happened to him before. He's quite unprepared for the challenge. "That's.. that's.." He wants to say preposterous, but what comes out of his mouth is a sibilant whistle. 

The truth is he's not prepared to give an answer, or to know what that answer would say about him.

 

****

 

Merlin follows the slave past the door and into the atrium. Sunlight, which comes from the open roof above, brightens the reception area and is reflected like a shower of diamonds sparkling off the water pooling in the impluvium. 

As they cross the shadows of the colonnaded peristilium, Merlin carefully skirts it. At its centre rows of bushes encircle a statue standing on a plinth.

The statue is that of a faun, whose ears are leaf shaped and whose hands are up, as though he has been caught in the act of dancing, music straining in the air. 

Merlin almost imagines he can hear the melody the faun he's moving to, though the chant that he does hear can come from no other source than the birds singing in the eaves, their trilled song soaring up and up towards the sky as the creatures call to each other. Their responses are joyous bursts of music that make Merlin smile in spite of the weight on his chest.

A door in a wall covered by ivy leads into the garden. When they reach it, the slave bows, gathers her tunic up and in a clatter of sandals disappears back into the house.

Gaius is standing in the sun, pruning his roses, their petals pink and red, bleached yellow and white, with big shears. From time to time he dabs at his forehead with his arm, catching fat drops of sweat that would otherwise stain his toga. He's so intent on the job he doesn't see Merlin.

“Beautiful bushes,” Merlin says with a grin.

Gaius starts and nearly drops the shears. “By Jove, Merlin, you gave me quite a fright, young man.”

“I didn't mean to,” Merlin says, only half sincere. Sometimes he does get a little thrill out of yanking his old mentor's chain. It must be a reaction to all the hardships of his apprenticeship years, for Merlin is still a bit resentful of all the times Gaius made him clean tankfuls of leeches. To this day Merlin hates the things and won't use them unless a patient absolutely clamours for them.

As though he knows what Merlin's thinking, Gaius wings an eyebrow. Clearly dismissing the notion of further telling Merlin off, he shakes his head and murmurs a flurry of words under his breath, none of which Merlin catches. “So what brings you here, my boy?”

“Can we talk?” Merlin asks, gazing at the bench behind Gaius. 

Gaius puts his shears by. “Of course.”

Together they walk to the bench that has been artfully placed in the shadows of the garden's walls. Merlin sits in a tense sprawl, his hands on his knees, while Gaius watches him keenly. 

“What's on your mind, my boy?”

“It's one of my patients,” Merlin says, fixing his gaze on a tuft of grass growing between two of the portico tiles. “I... I think he still needs my help, but I'm in a bit of a bind.”

“What sort of bind?” Gaius cranes his neck.

“It's one of the gladiators from Marcellus' school,” Merlin says, licking his lips. “He was laid low with an infection for a while. He was very poorly and his shoulder – he dislocated it – still needs some work before he can fight.”

“I'm sure you've cured many a worse case, Merlin,” Gaius says. “Even when you were still my apprentice – and quite clumsy – you helped with much worse ones. Your gift is certainly enough to tackle this anyway. I don't see what seems to be the problem.”

“His lanista won't allow me to see him again.”

Gaius fetches an elaborate sigh. “Alas, my boy, there's little you can do if that's the case. Your conscience can rest easy.”

Merlin's face prickles and he gives out a hefty puff of breath. “It's not that...” Merlin ducks his head, plunges his profile in shadow. “He wants me to pay to see Nemo.”

“Nemo?” Gaius says, his voice rising inquisitively.

“My gl--” Merlin sinks a tooth in the fat of his lip. “My patient.”

Gaius' eyes widen and the motion pushes up his eyebrows. “I've never heard of such a request being made before... well, unless, of course, we're talking about a... much less professional arrangement.”

Merlin doesn't want to go over how Marcellus does think his and Nemo relationship is quite different from what it actually is. Neither does he want to give details as to the event that put that idea into the lanista's head. On the contrary, he wishes he could avoid the topic entirely, but in view of what he's come here to ask, he doesn't think he can. He ought to be as sincere as feasibly possible. “It's not that kind of different,” Merlin says, making sure to roll his eyes and quirk his lips, “but you know how some lanistas are. Minds in the gutter.”

“I don't know their ilk very well, evidently, for I've never heard of such a tale,” Gaius says, his voice trailing off into a whistle-like sound.

“Gaius.” Merlin's throat works. His eyelids fan down. “I need some money.”

Gaius doesn't say anything, he doesn't even tut, which is his standard response for when Merlin says something that shows how naïve he is in his mentor's eyes. Instead he stands and says, “Follow me inside.”

They step back into the house. By sailing past the atrium, they get to Gaius' office.

The room is large, painted green up to knee height. Above that level, mosaics adorn the wall. They're of simple manufacture, nothing grand at all, but Merlin has always admired the one of Aesculapius that frames Gaius' desk. 

The god is depicted carrying his staff, a serpent wreathed around it in coils of green, kneeling by an ailing man, whose figure lies motionless on a floor of browns.

Gaius always said the mosaic represented Aesculapius bestowing life on the dead, only to be punished for his action by Jove himself. 

Merlin, for his part, has always liked to think of it as a connection between his belief system and that of the Romans, the bridge between the tradition that he was – too briefly – raised in and Gaius'. As he always does when he's in this room, he loses himself in the watching of the mosaic, in its beauty. The artwork seems to move, get depth, breath life. Gaius plonks a pouch on the desk. “How much do you need?” he asks.

Merlin lowers his head. “Fifty sesterces.”

Gaius' voice soars. “That's preposterous!”

Merlin doesn't comment. He too thinks it is and has voiced the thought to Marcellus too, but the truth is that the lanista holds all the cards and there's little Merlin can do to pressure the man into changing his ridiculous terms. “I know. I realise.”

“I can give you ten,” Gaius says, counting out as many coins. 

They rain into Merlin's hand, flashing bright, like an avalanche of wheat, though they bear a greater weight. “I'll repay it, Gaius, I promise.” He closes his fist around the handful of coins and stands taller.

Gaius pats his shoulder. “I just hope you know what you're doing.”

"Without me... my..." Merlin wets his lips. "I think he may be doomed."

"Then I wish you well, my boy."

Ten sesterces is way away from fifty, so a jaunt to the Fiscus offices makes itself necessary for Merlin. Two days after he paid his visit to Gaius, Merlin finds himself standing in a queue of bored patrons, demanding matrons, and servile clients, waiting to see Aurelius Lepidus. When at last he's received, his knees and back ache from standing so long, his soles hurt and his face has turned pink from the sun. 

“Merlin the physician,” Lepidus says, eating a fig out of a bowl placed on his desk. “What brings you here?”

Merlin bites down the retort he does want to come up with and instead says, “My arrears.”

Lepidus drinks half a cup of wine. It leaves his lips stained blood red and he doesn't bother to wipe them clean. “You'll have to wait.”

“But I've waited patiently for more than six months!” Merlin says in as reasonable a tone as he feels his frustrations with the fiscal system warrant.

“I'm sorry,” Lepidus says, toying with his glass. “But my answer is the same.”

“This is ridiculous!” Merlin says, stepping forward with his fists balled, face heating. If there's one thing that he hates about Roman morals it's this, the laxity, the arrogance, the downright bullish behaviour of the administrative class. “That money is mine. That's my fee for my services to the emperor. I've already waited six months for it. It seems to me high time you paid me.”

“Act like that and I'll see to it that you get your money next year instead,” says Lepidus, dipping his fingers into the bowl. “Now shoo.”

“But it's...”

Lepidus waves him away with a clack of sticky fingers. Merlin wants to snap them but refrains from acting on impulse. He's not that violent. He's been taught the value of peace. But it is a temptation.

In a strop Merlin tramps back to the palace. This time Elianus waves him in without stopping him. Announcing his presence by way of a bow and cough, Merlin steps into the imperial chambers.

At sight of him the emperor tilts his head sideways in a show of surprise, but immediately after he waves Merlin forward, offering him wine and dates. When Merlin politely refuses, he nods. “What brings you here?” he asks then, dismissing his servants with a snap of his fingers.

They migrate elsewhere in a silent parade, their heads lowered.

Merlin takes a second bow. When he straightens, he says. “Need, Caesar. I saw Aurelius Lepidus this morning.”

Claudius gives out a loud snort. “Small wonder. The man hogs his funds like a satyr would comely women. He keeps them to himself for as long as possible, clearly hoping he can retain the whole if he doesn't dole sums out as needed.”

Merlin shuffles from side to side, hums.

“But I'll see to it that you're paid,” the emperor says, walking into the adjacent office and coming out of it holding a money bag. “I've always paid my dues.”

Merlin doesn't move to take the proffered bag. He stands there with his mouth open. At last, he bethinks himself and says, “Thank you, Caesar.”

“You are surprised,” the emperor observes. “I can see that in your eyes.”

Merlin wills his expression to morph into one of proper gratefulness, but he's not sure he has that much control over the expressiveness of his features. They've always, somehow or other, betrayed him. “I am surprised that an emperor would condescend to see to matters like this, that he would care.”

Claudius clacks his tongue. “You're quite direct. You wouldn't have survived a day under my esteemed nephew Gaius Germanicus.”

“I think not,” Merlin says, glad he wasn't serving as palace physician when Caligula ruled. 

“I suppose you must be glad of the change in leadership then.”

Merlin bowed, eyes low on the ground. “Caesar.”

“I'll be counting you as an ally then, physician,” says Claudius, pushing the money bag towards him.

With a feeling he's now enmeshing himself in something he doesn't understand, Merlin takes it. He'll think about it later. For now Nemo needs his help so he can face the arena in a condition that allows him to fight, and win. 

Even with the arrears he was owed by the Fiscus, Merlin hasn't quite made the fifty sesterces. He leaves the palace with a pocketful of money and much closer to his goal but not quite there yet.

An emergency plan already half-formed, he makes his way home.

There is a box under his bed. He kneels by it and drags it out. The box is dusty and battered round the corners but in spite of its shabby appearance Merlin's heart is going at a gallop at sight of it. 

A bit breathless, he opens it, slowly so as not to damage it, likening the creak of its hinges to the voice an old friend. 

The sigil, which rests on a bed of cloth, looks the same as it has always done, made of gold, round, its circumference a little uneven. The back of it is plain and bears no writing, but the front has an etching on it. It represents a great oak, identical to the one Merlin preyed to as a child, its leaves carved in gold, in a multiplicity of little cuts that ornament the precious ore. Around the oak is a wreath formed by two concentric circles; in the lines between the first and the second a triple spiral converges outwards.

As Merlin weighs the sigil in his hand, the tree grows within the margins of the wreath, expands and pulsates as though it's breathing the breath of life.

With eyes made round by a familiar form of awe, Merlin watches the great oak shake and sough in the wind, its branches reaching up and outwards, north, east and west, till they touch the sky and wrap themselves around the earth, finding its centre. They pierce its inner sanctum, which is more than rock and magma, but pure incandescent energy that grows and grows in merging spheres of power.

There's a tug at Merlin's core, as though it's dislodged his heart, or some other important organ. But when Merlin looks again, wanting to drink in the vision, the etching stills and appears as quiescent as any other design. 

Bending his head, Merlin kisses the sigil. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm sorry, but I have to.”

He pockets the sigil but leaves the torc in the box, which he hides again under his bed.

With his pocket so weighted, Merlin wends his way to the Forum Boarium. Amid the stalls erected in the shadow of the Arch of Janus, he seeks that of Baetis the Spaniard. When he finds it – it's not one of the largest, but surely one of the dodgiest – Merlin says, “How much for a gold medallion?”

With a glint in his eyes, Baetis says, “That depends.”

Merlin shows him his merchandise.

Midweek and before he starts his rounds, Merlin goes to the gladiator school. Marcellus' dogsbody opens the door for him, takes him in warily and which a tired wisdom in his eyes that belies his age. “Marcellus says to only let you in if you have the money.”

“I have it,” Merlin says, clutching his money bag till his finger ache dully.

When he's shown into his cell, Nemo is trying to flex his injured arm high above his head.

“If you don't do that properly you'll only re-injure yourself,” Merlin tells him, with a frog in his throat. It's not only caused by his fear that Nemo will only needlessly harm himself if he tries to force the healing process, but also by the thought that Merlin wasn't there to prevent him doing anything foolish. “Let me show you how to get your old range of motion back.”

“I can do this by myself,” Nemo says, without turning around, his profile stark and severe as he continues his exercises.

Merlin crosses over to him, puts a hand on the shoulder he's flexing. “I really am an old hand at this, believe me.”

Nemo shrugs him off. “And as I said, I can look after myself without your help.”

Merlin drops his hand, burned to the skin by words that, albeit harsh, shouldn't be affecting him as they do. “I only mean well.”

Nemo huffs.

Merlin's mouth thins. “Now what does that mean?”

“I said nothing.” Nemo winces as he tries to work his arm outwards.

“That sound,” Merlin says, mimicking it. “What was that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I told you.”

“Oh come on,” Merlin says, stomping his foot. “It did mean something.”

Nemo puts his arm out as though he's swimming. “On the contrary.”

“Please, don't treat me like an idiot,” Merlin says, with fire in his voice, a fire that serves to cover the sting to his heart. “I'm not.”

Nemo stops his exercises and whirls around. “Then stop acting solicitous when you're not.”

“What are you going on about!” Merlin says, mouth hanging open on the last word.

Nemo spins round and stabs him in the chest with two fingers. “You didn't come.”

Merlin's heart seizes and then contracts under his ribs. His voice is a feeble thread when he says, “I couldn't come."

Nemo turns around and resumes his ill-advised work out. “Uh, uh.”

“Oh no,” Merlin says, grabbing Nemo by his good elbow and forcing him to spin on his heels so they can face each other. “You're not shutting me out. I swear I would have come if I could.” Merlin considers revealing his bargain with Marcellus but thinks his having conceded to blackmail so humiliating he can't bring himself to share the truth. Especially considering what Marcellus thought he wanted to see Nemo for. Nemo, with all his uprightness, as evidenced by his actions in the arena, would condemn him for it. The mere thought of letting Nemo down fills Merlin's mouth with bile and twists his guts as though with a sickness without remedy. “I couldn't...” he tails off, his voice dwindling to nothing. 

What he's said must have had an effect though, for Nemo relents a little, his face loses its stony cast and he says, “All right. I understand. You were busy. All right.” 

“Is it?” Merlin asks, observing the play of shadows on Nemo's face, his down-turned chin, the fall of his hair across his forehead, a good shield for the eyes.

“You're a busy man, aren't you?”

Merlin can't gainsay him without hinting at his bargain, so he says something that he knows will sound honest, because it's as true as it comes. “I wish I could have been here to help you. That's what I wished the most this whole week.”

Nemo nods and sinks onto his cot with his legs stretched outwards. “All right,” he says again. His head is still down. “I believe you.”

Merlin kneels by his side, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “I promise you. I'll make the pain go away.”

Nemo holds himself rigid for a second or two and stares at Merlin's hand on him so that Merlin believes he's hurting him and retracts his touch. Nemo's body sags, he makes a soft noise, and says, “I believe you about that too.”

“And you'd be right,” Merlin says, smiling a smile that is sure to come out wonky, because in truth he thinks he wants to cry with relief and some other unnamed sensation that lodges large in his chest. Nemo's acceptance of him is a wonder he's deeply thankful for. “My professional pride is at stake here.”

“Mmmm.”

They start training the very next day. To do so they leave the confines of Nemo's cell for the first time since Merlin's been allowed into it. Merlin reckons the fresh air will do Nemo good, both to his body and to his morale, and he himself can't stand the dark place anymore.

In the courtyard a score of men are already sweating as they face each other on the hard-packed dirt. One of the trainers is coaching two recruits in the centre of the practice ground. The others are fighting a little way away from them. 

As the normal routine of the ludus unfolds, Merlin and Nemo walk from the compound and into the shade of one of the sheds. Here Nemo strips himself of his tunic, coming to stand only in his small clothes, his body fit and wide, muscular at the thighs and bust, only bearing some faint scarring. 

He's a little pale, paler than he probably ought to be given that his complexion tends to be livelier than Merlin's, but Merlin thinks he looks good, healthy. no, completely beautiful, like a work of art. Perhaps not the daintiest but certainly the most arresting. He's a joy to behold, a creation of nature Merlin's happy to look and look at. Endlessly.

Unaware of Merlin's thoughts, Nemo walks over to a bench, his shoulders set wide, his pace slow and measured, and carefully folds his clothes on its level surface. 

In the shadow of one of the barrack buildings, Nemo starts his loosening up excercises. Under Merlin's supervision, he sits down and, with his hand under his elbow, he starts rocking his arm back and forth. “Are you sure this is going to work?” he asks.

"Positive,” Merlin says, watching the movement closely to ensure Nemo executes it correctly. “You'll have to work towards getting your usual range of movement back.”

“It seems to me,” Nemo says, though he completes the task the way Merlin directed him to, “that this isn't what a warrior should be doing. How I should be getting my strength back.”

Merlin tuts, places himself behind Nemo, his hand on his good shoulder. “Trust me. These things require patience. Daily work. I know what I'm doing.”

“I think I'm the more likely of the two to have an understanding of how a fighter should recover.” He focuses on his arm movements, then reprises talking. "You're only a physician."

Merlin's lips curve at the corners. “Of course you'd think that.”

“I used to be a warrior,” Nemo says, tipping his head back to look Merlin in the face, his expression serious with his lips pressed together and flattened outwards at the corners. His eyes though widen a fraction, open and honest. “Before. I think I know how to train myself to fight.”

Merlin crouches, says low in Nemo's ear, “And I've trained a long time to be a physician."

Nemo chuckles. "I've been trained to fight since birth."

"I know my stuff too, I promise,” Merlin says, a touch of humour to his voice, though he's not sure who he's directed it to, Nemo, for sounding so bloody cocky, or himself for biting. "It's taken me a good while to learn what I know."

“How long?” Nemo asks. “I mean... you're young.”

Merlin observes the other gladiators further afield as they simulate attack and retreat sequences. Not taking his eyes off them, he says. “My mentor started teaching me when I was fifteen. There's been plenty of time for me to learn.”

For a while they stay silent. Merlin guides Nemo through sequence upon sequence of excercises and Nemo sweats, grunts and winces through it. He doesn't dispute Merlin's authority further either, which is, in itself, a little miracle.

All through the session, he displays incredible determination to complete each set of task to the best of his abilites. He's thorough, meticulous, and very driven. And though he seems in a hurry to get better, perhaps to the detriment of cautious improvement, Merlin doesn't have the heart to chide him for it.

With his elbow into his side Nemo moves his hand at different angles, just as Merlin instructed. “And before that? Nemo asks, going back to the topic they had abandoned.

Merlin studies the people within hearing distance, the trainers and gladiators, the errand boys scuttling past. He says, “I was a country boy living in Gaul.”

“So no martial experience whatsover, which means I still know more about how to prepare myself for a fight than you,” Nemo says, his lips quivering at the corners with impending laughter.

“And I still know more about how to fix bodies than you do,” Merlin says, shepheriding Nemo through more work outs.

Over the next two weeks they do more of the same. However Nemo's range of movement has widened so much they can start expanding on the regimen Merlin has set out for him. Since his aim is to recover full elasticity, they try to reawaken those muscles that have been a little to idle and make sure the shoulder joint becomes again capable of full motion. Since his right arm is the one that's injured, Nemo also trains himself to fight left-handed.

Because of the dislocation Nemo has lost some muscle mass in his arm, so he excercises to keep his lower body fit. When the pain in his shoulder diminishes, he completes stretches and crunches, and does sit ups too. He runs. Runs a lot, not like the wind -- he's not built for that -- but in poweful bursts Merlin stands in awe of.

When he can, Merlin helps too. With his touch, he infuses his healing powers in Nemo. And if each time Merlin touches Nemo, the breath is seared in his lungs, Merlin doesn't ask himself why. That's too much to think about when his main preoccupation is getting Nemo back on his feet.

Little by little Nemo gets back to top form. He gets his colour back, his muscle mass grows, and he learns new tricks to compensate for the downsides of his injuries. He even looks better. Not that Nemo was ever anything less that one of the handsomest men in the gladiatorial school, but now his eyes shine, his features have lost some of their tension, and an unfettered smile often graces his lips.

Merlin believes him to be basking in his newly reacquired vigour.

Sometimes, Nemo will ask Merlin to train with him. With a roll of his eyes Merlin will tell him that of course he's up to it. 

"Can you stand being put through the paces?" Nemo asks, his chin thrust out, his eyebrows climbing. 

And Merlin – probably stupidly – retorts, "Of course. I'm not infirm."

Invariably, after a few courtyard laps, of after a sparring session during which Nemo lords it over him, Merlin will feel winded and outpaced, his heart ramming against his ribs. 

And of course, Nemo will rib him for it. "So, Merlin," he'll say, "still think you can do as well as a trained warrior?" Or, "Face planting amid the daisies, are we?"

One hot afternoon after such a work out, they stretch on the ground, their arms brushing, their chests rising and falling to the same rhtythm.

Merlin is grinning from ear to ear, feeling the heat radiating off Nemo's chest, the bulk of him a comforting presence. If he closes his eyes, Merlin fancies he can see that heat take on the colour of fire, red, orange and yellow. If he squeezes them ever so tight, he can even picture licks of it enveloping his body, like the flames lapping at the ends of Brigid's hair, when he saw her showing him her heart of hearts.

Merlin's so deep in his fantasy he almost doesn't deem the footfall that sounds closer and closer noteworthy. It's only a backrground sound to him. And it's only because he's suddenly thrown in shadow that he looks up and sees Marcellus.

Marcellus has his arms folded in a bulge of muscle across his chest, when he says, "It's been two weeks now." He nods his head in Nemo's direction. "You owe me fifty more for the next two."

Merlin sits up, doesn't know what to say. "I'll... do what I can," is what he settles on.

Merlin is still trying to come up with a few more words, when Nemo picks himself up very slowly and very deliberately puts on his tunic, which he discarded in favour of a loincloth in the heat of the afternoon, and stalks back into the compound. 

"See that you pay," Marcellus says, only to dart off in the opposite direction to Nemo, reproof for one of his gladiators -- who's lost his gladius -- on his lips.

Merlin puts his sandals back on and chases after Nemo. He finds him half way to his cell, his pace stiff and hurried. "Nemo!" Merlin says, trying to stop him. "Nemo."

But Nemo doesn't give up on his toeing and froing; if anything he increases his pace.

Knowing Nemo won't stop prowling the cell, Merlin grabs him by the elbow. "Hey, will you talk to me!"

Nemo shrugs him off. "No."

"But why!"

Nemo's shoulders bunch and he tips his head forward. "You know the reason why perfectly well."

"Is it because of Marcellus?" Merlin asks.

"No," Nemo says, without so much as turning around. "It's because you lied."

"About the money?" Merlin asks, though he doesn't need to. He knows he should have told the truth. He realises he was stupid not doing so, but at the time he'd wanted Nemo's good opinion like the next breath. However now the idea he's hurt Nemo with his bargain hurts like a tear in the fabric of Merlin's heart. It drains his brain of thought and his face of colour and blood. "Is that why you're angry with me?"

Nemo scoffs.

"I had no choice," Merlin says, his voice thick. "I was told I had to if I wanted to see you again."

Nemo palms his forehead.

"Sophia is doing the same," Merlin tries again. "You're not angry with her."

Nemo hiccups a snort. "No, I'm not angry with her."

"I don't see what's different," Merlin says, lost because of the pain in his heart. The idea Nemo now despises him is bleeding him dry.

"Truly, Merlin?"

Merlin's head fizzes with swirling thoughts that press on his brain till he thinks it will come leaking out of his ears; his eyes sting and burn. But it's his heart that's suffered the biggest hit. It's torn open. “I only wanted to be at your side. And that was the only way I could do it.”

“You bought me.”

“I never...”

“You know,” Nemo says, slowly straightening till he's standing very stiff, outlined in darkness. “Sophia offered to, outright. I told her I couldn't be bought. That I wouldn't do anything unless I wished it. She said I had mettle and she liked that in a man. So she paid for me but she never bought me. I gave what I wanted to.”

“I never....” Merlin swallows, wishing the gesture would help him find more than a thread of voice. “I never meant to do anything other than help you.”

“Beside the point,” says Nemo curtly.

Merlin's shoulder sag. “I never meant to hurt you. I'd sooner hurt myself.” When he understands how true that is, Merlin's stomach wobbles. He can't gather thoughts or justify himself. He doesn't even want to. He doesn't want to be right; he only wants forgiveness. He's adrift without it. Without Nemo's friendship, because that's what he thinks they have, the world is a horribly bleak place. Trying to get a hold of words is like wading through some thick substance that has enmeshed his body never to release it again. At last he settles for, “Tell me what I should have done. What I can do and I'll do it.”

Nemo shrugs his shoulders. “Talked to me. You should have talked to me. That's what you could have done.”

“I'm sorry,” Merlin says, heart breaking at Nemo's dire tone. He wants to cry... not so much for himself but for Nemo, for having disappointed him. He'd do it all again in a heartbeat if he only could. “I'm sorry.”

“I know.” Nemo turns around, his face shrouded in the darkness. “I thought you knew.”

“What?” Merlin asks, taking a step towards Nemo, lifting a hand as though to reach for him, which of course he doesn't. “What did you think I knew?”

“Never mind that,” says Nemo, fists clenched, tendons sticking out. "Satisfy my curiosity. You don't look rich. You wear no toga, so you're not even a citizen. How did you get the money?"

Merlin doesn't want Nemo's pity, so he doesn't say a thing about the sygil. "My mentor. And the emperor owed me my fee. I'm his physician."

Nemo's head snaps sharply. “I'll have to ask you not to come again.”

Nemo's footsteps die out as he turns into another corridor leading to his cell.

At home Merlin sits on the side of the bed, arms dangling between his knees, his shoulders hunched in a powerless stoop. He leans on folded arms, exhausted, empty, his powers acting up, till they burn him from the inside out. A hand over his eyes.

 

*****

The candle guttering in the background, Merlin sprawls on his bed, hands under his armpits, feet crossed. Heavy of heart, he watches the shadows play on the wall.

The more he stares the more the shapes take on a life of their own. Grass grows into a tree, the tree shakes its boughs, and the boughs shed an apple. The apple feeds a fire that leaps and leaps and forms a column. Tall and incorporeal, it reaches upwards.

There's a knock on the door. Merlin blinks and the shadows become quiescent. “Give the door a push,” Merlin says with as much enthusiasm as he can summon. “It's open.”

Gaius steps into the room with his rolling gait, an eyebrow arched. “Merlin, it's highly imprudent to leave your door open like that.”

“There's nothing much to steal anyway.” Merlin doesn't sit up, but rights his head. “Nothing but sad old me here." He pauses, considering what he's just said just obnoxiously pathetic. "Why did you drop by?”

It's been ten days without a peep from you,” Gaius says, grabbing a stool and sitting on it. “I was worried.” 

“I'm fine,” Merlin says, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. “I just had a lot of work, that's all.”

Gaius tuts. “Merlin.”

“What, it's true!” It isn't untrue anyway. Though he might have spent more time than is healthy cooped up in his bedroom, entertaining all manner of desolate thoughts and feelings, the whole range probably, he has seen to his duties as though nothing has happened. “I owe my patients my time.”

“Indeed,” says Gaius, “one would think you never had time for anything but your practice before too. Yet you always managed to come round every week or so.”

“This has been a highly frustrating week,” Merlin says. “Serious cases all around and I...”

He's interrupted by a man standing in the doorway. He's unmissable in his red cloak and crested helmet. “Merlin the physician?” he asks, tilting his head questioningly.

This time Merlin sits up, one of his feet on the floor. “Yes, that's me.”

“I have a missive for you.” The man holds up a rolled up scroll tied with a red ribbon.

Merlin gulps, stands, walks over to the man. The messenger hands him the parchment, puts his fist high on his chest, salutes, and leaves.

Gaius turns on his stool, says, “What's in the message?”

Merlin unties the ribbon and undoes the scroll. “It's...” he says, quickly scanning the missive, “an invitation to the palace. The emperor is giving a feast and I'm invited.”

Gaius whistles. “It's good news then.”

“Not particularly.” He tosses the scroll onto his desk and marches back to his bed. “It doesn't really make me happy or anything. It's a chore rather.”

“Surely you don't mean to refuse,” Gaius says, his forehead a mass of cautionary wrinkles.

“Actually, I do,” Merlin says, resuming the previous position. “I'm not in the mood to spend a night at the palace making small talk.”

“That's ridiculous, Merlin!” Gaius says, punctuating the words with eyebrow waggles. “You don't say no to an emperor.”

“It seems like I just have though,” Merlin says, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “I really can't face a night of politics and society gossip. I'm... I'm tired, Gaius.”

“Nonsense.” The floorboards creak and Merlin can tell Gaius is moving about. 

Merlin scrunches his face. He's hot about the temples and his body feels heavy. “It's true, though. I can't really do this right now.” Merlin will stop feeling like this sooner or later and that's when he'll start thinking about his career. “It's not an option at the moment.”

“If you don't go they'll think you're not loyal,” Gaius says, matter of fact.

“Let them.”

“You are being wilful, obdurate, and naïve,” Gaius says. "And putting yourself at risk!"

Merlin doesn't have the strength to argue the point. He really doesn't want to. “Well, then perhaps I am.”

Something lands on his face and Merlin snaps his eyes open. “What the hell, Gaius!”

“You will go and that's it,” Gaius tells him, the veins in his forehead bulging, his finger wagging rapidly, accusatory. 

“But--”

“Merlin, you don't want to snub an emperor,” Gaius says, then pointedly adds, “not considering who you are.”

“Right...” Merlin says, taking that into consideration. Gaius isn't entirely wrong in pointing out the special nature of his position. Merlin isn't a Roman citizen. He isn't your average provincial either. “Still--”

“Merlin, please go and let an old man rest easy.” Gaius' last salvo obviously is an appeal to Merlin's conscience because clearly Gaius knows him too well by now. 

Gaius' plea couched in those terms, there's little Merlin can say other than, “All right, but I'll only stay an hour.”

The convivium is held in a spacious hall on the ground floor of the imperial palace, one that spills onto a garden of vast proportions. It's s shaded by cypress trees. Broad ivory couches have been arranged along the decorated walls, surrounding a central table laden with food of all kinds.

Wild animals roasted or basted, ornamented with fruit bearing the colours of the rainbow, lie on large silver trays. Cuts of pork, boar, veal, peacock and lamb deck plate upon plate. Roasted birds in the shape of quails, pheasants and thrushes fountain around a large vessel made of concentric dishes. Slices of fish lie pale upon rows and rows of platters while oysters, lobster, and shellfish fill others. 

The bowls and plates are silver, shiny like a polished blade. The rest of the tableware comes in gold, rock crystal, and onyx in a dazzling array that makes Merlin fan his lashes in an attempt to block the glare. The cups, held high by the diners, are decorated with reliefs of floral motifs and erotic scenes that are spectacularly graphic. 

Trying not to fixate on that, Merlin ambles past this central table and finds a seat in the middle of a couch, wedging himself between a matron who's got pearls in her hair and a man whose toga is striped with purple, indicating he's a magistrate. 

In solemnity it's only matched by the purple one belonging to the emperor. The man himself is reclining on a couch that has pride of place, lying next to his wife, Valeria. A stola of lilac silk hangs from her frame in airy pleats that dance around her. Her hair, fingers and neck are covered in stones: rubies, emeralds, and agates. Ivory combs in the shape of dainty butterflies hold her tresses in place, though her locks cascade in a complicated array of plaits that twist her mane in endless loops. Bands of yellow and orange gold creep up her arm like vines. They remind Merlin of the jewellery his people used to fashion, though the snake pattern isn't typical of their craftsmanship.

Those present discuss fashionable topics: art and theatre, poetry, in particular versification and the power of words. Someone quotes Catullus. _No faith in any tie was ever so great, as has been found, on my part, in love of you._ Merlin shakes to his marrow at how powerfully the words, words he's never paid attention to before, affect him. Once they've sunk in, Merlin can't do anything but try and process the recent past, try and trace where he went wrong.

While Merlin is so distracted, new topics – music and dance – are touched upon. A dispute about the different most popular dance styles arises. Its participants argue about which one is the most graceful, the most refined, the one requiring the most skill. 

Merlin can't muster the will to pay attention. It doesn't matter anyway, the conversation seems to have been a pretext for the show that ensues, for when the emperor claps, dancers tiptoe into the room, swaying to the music coming from a lyre. 

The dancers move briskly to a syncopated rhythm, clap their hands and point their toes, their motions calibrated, their tunics a rainbow of colour that swishes past in lances of every hue. 

When they're done, they bow. The guests shower gold at their feet. The dancers go to their knees and rake it all up, amassing blinding heaps of Aureii. Light of foot and richer for their effort, they hop into the next room. They disappear from view like a vision from the gods, fleeting, gently touching the well of one's memory before vanishing the way a dream does.

Interval over, the guests return to their discussion of the arts, except this time the topic at hand is Greek and Roman sculpture. Some of the guests favour the Greeks, maintaining that everything Roman was Greek first, a travesty of copying, while most assert that Roman art is far superior in its simplicity.

The emperor intervenes, says, “Fie, fie, I don't begrudge you your opinions. The Greeks have always been outstanding. In fact I think they're not only good artists but also excellent administrators.”

Inevitably, seamlessly, the conversation shifts to politics with the senators debating the point, praising the virtues of Roman statecraft while visibly trying not to go against the emperor's opinion. 

Merlin can't summon the will to care about this too much either. He isn't a citizen and the topic of justice for the common people, which might interest him, isn't broached at all. 

His thoughts drift in other directions – mostly to do with Nemo admittedly – while the conversation around him waxes.

He only pays attention to it again because Aulus Plautius, whom Merlin remembers from his former visit at the palace, stands up rather boisterously and very loudly starts discussing the situation in Britain. 

“The Catuvellauni grow in power. The Trinovantes can do little against their might. And as for their one time ally, Agravaine, he's no use to them. A traitor once...”

“Well, of course, he did away with his nephew,” comments Valeria Messalina. “One can see why the Catuvellauni wouldn't trust him.”

“Yes, indeed, my lady,” Plautius says. He has a slave pour him more wine, then adds, “Our men in Camulodunum have been able to gather rumours.”

The emperor straightens. “I thought there was no news.”

“Let's say that you can buy a mercenary's service but not their silence,” says Plautius, his chest sticking out. “They say that Prince Artorius is in Rome.”

“Nonsense,” says Valeria Messalina, shaking her head to a jingle of jewellery. “We would know if such a thing was true. The very man we want here in Rome?”

“Caesar, a string of witness reports places him here. It's rumoured he was drawn into a trap, overpowered and abducted by mercenaries.”

“This I believe,” says Claudius, relinquishing his glass into a slave's hand and dismissing her with an almost imperceptible nod. “He's a warrior. I'm sure he would have fought to retain his throne. His uncle would have been aware and would surely have hired mercenaries to do away with him.”

“We traced one of those men to Calleva,” Plautius says. “Before he died we learnt that Prince Artorius was sold to a Roman slaver.”

“So what?” Claudius asks, eyes narrowing as he takes in the news. “Prince Artorius is now a household slave somewhere in Italy?”

“That's a possibility we have to take into account, Caesar,” Plautius says, eyes bright, slipping forward on his couch, fully leaning towards the emperor, his excitation at the idea seeping from his every pore.

For a moment nobody speaks, then Valeria Messalina wraps her hand around her husband and says, “Husband, this is a feast.” Her gaze encompasses those present. “This piece of news is surely of some local interest but of no great importance, most of all not to our guests. We should entertain them, not bore them with politics. The might of Rome will rise unchallenged whether they're bored to tears or not.”

“You're not wrong, my dear,” the emperor answers. “Let's have more entertainment.”

Acrobats tumble in. They cavort in the centre of the triclinium, drawing bursts of applause from the imperial family's guests. 

As they caper and tumble, roll and do handstands, lutenists play in the gallery, accompanying their motions. While they twirl around, flaming torches fly, back-light their billowing cloaks and multicoloured tunics. More entertainers enter. Amid the din of constant applause fire eaters extinguish torches with their mouth and snake wranglers toy with scaly monsters whose skin shines in the counter-light.

The spectacle is quite grand but Merlin's heart isn't in it.

As Merlin walks home late that night, wind cuts across his chest, and pinches his cheeks. To avoid the dust it throws into his eyes, he lowers his head and marches on in the pose of a charging bull. Because of the wind no clouds litter the sky and a bright light comes from the stars. It rinses the streets silver. 

Unlike most nights Merlin can see where he's going and what he's stepping on. That's why he avoids a puddle and manages not to step on a leaflet advertising a new munus. 

With a jerk of his heart that takes his breath, Merlin stops and picks it up. It's stained in various places, sole prints deface it at the bottom and centre. It's eaten away at the corner too, but the gist of the advert is still legible. 

New gladiatorial games will take place five days from now at the amphitheatre in Ostia. The gladiators taking part are mentioned by name. Montanus, the giant of the North, is the first mentioned. But the name immediately following his is that of Nemo.

Merlin crumples the flyer, then rips it into tiny shreds. Only once he's seen them all being borne away by the wind does he resume his trek home. 

Tears he can't bother wiping wind down his cheeks in cold tracks that aren't quite as cold as his heart. When his vision becomes too blurry to continue, he stops, curses, palms his eyes. When they're a little bit dryer, he rights himself and tries to proceed, but a sob breaks out of him, ugly and breath-robbing, and he has to stop again, lean against the closest wall and press his cheek against the rough of it. 

He closes his eyes then, inhales, visions of darkness and death assaulting his senses, till he all he can see is ripped flesh and all he can smell is the stench of putrefaction. Worms crawling up his skin, wriggling. He pummels the wall. His hand throbs with pain but he experiences no satisfaction.

“Please no,” he says to the stars and wind, but he isn't sure they're listening. He slides down the wall and into a puddle that has all the stench of stagnant water. 

He stays there until his limbs are numb and his face is so cold he can't feel it anymore. Then he laboriously picks himself up and continues on the way home. 

Wild thoughts prey on him though and he doesn't pay much attention to the path ahead or to its dangers. He thinks of Nemo, his smile and his stubbornness, his rough edges and the softer ones. He makes a point of lingering on how well he'd looked the last time Merlin saw him, how strong, like a pillar, he had been. Based on that, Merlin tries to gauge his fighting fitness and to predict whether he'll survive this outing or not. 

Contemplating that does him no good. As he considers the off chances and the worst case scenarios, his heart skips. His teeth clench and his breath comes in staggered gasps. Heavy blankets of grey settling upon it, his brain fogs up.

He wanders on blind. Proceeding this way along streets he can't name, he nearly ends up in the suburra by mistake, a prostitute calling over to him with the tones of too young a girl. The hulking man standing in the shadows behind her is the one that sends waves of unease crashing over Merlin however. A glint of metal bright like a burst of thunder flashes from the blind alley.

Merlin doesn't hurry but neither does he linger on, his unease solidifying.

Despite the haemorrhage of thoughts drilling at his brain and his lost sense of direction, Merlin makes it home.

He's halfway over to the entrance of his building, when someone pushes off the shadows opposite, their footfall cadenced, and marches up to him, their shape enveloped in the coils of a green cloak.

Thinking he's going to be attacked at last, Merlin stiffens.

“Merlin,” the person calls out in soft aristocratic tones. “Wait.”

Merlin recognises the voice. No longer on the look-out for an attack, his body relaxes. “Sophia Pulchra, is that you?”

Pale hands emerge from the folds of the cloak to push back the hood of the garment. “Yes, I see you recognise me.”

Merlin looks from one side of the street to the other. “Why are you here?”

“Nemo sent me,” she says, softly pushing air out of pursed lips. “He wanted me to give you this.”

Merlin accepts the note she passes him, but can't help stumble over her words. “Nemo? You're running an errand for Nemo?”

“Indeed, sweet physician,” she says, tipping her head into a bow. “I am.”

“What does...” he starts, unable to complete the question as his voice trembles.

“Read the note,” Sophia tells him and if there's something of the order about her tone, Merlin lets it slide.

With unsteady hands, Merlin opens the note.

_Merlin,  
I do hope that when you see this you'll come see me.  
Trust the bearer,  
Nemo_

Merlin looks up. “He said,” Merlin stammers. “He said he didn't want to see me again. I don't get his change of heart.”

Sophia lifts a shoulder. “Impeding death tends to have an impact on people.”

“How...” Merlin attempts to think of the practicalities. “I want to go but I need some time to collect the money to pay Marcellus off.”

“That has been seen to,” says Sophia, her lips forming into a half smile even as she haughtily huffs. “Of course it has...”

“Then let's go,” Merlin says, starting in the direction of the ludus.

Sophia grabs him by his cloak. “Stop there. We can't tonight. We won't be let in.”

“But,” Merlin says, “he said he wants to see me.”

“And he will,” Sophia says, not letting go of his cloak, rather pulling him back by it. “The night before the fight. I'll come pick you up.”

“But it's too late,” Merlin says, thinking with horror of the time he's wasting, of what may happen on the day of the Ostia games. “I can't.”

“No buts,” Sophia says, before pulling her hood back over her features. “Remember, be here in four days, at midnight.”

That night Merlin hardly sleeps. His thoughts won't stop churning in his brain. Even when they're all but half formed, they come at him, in the shape of dreams, nightmares, memories. 

He can't erase the image of Nemo from his brain. 

In his visions he's standing tall and proud in his cell, wearing full combat gear, his shield up, shining silver bright. The window of his cell is not barred and light creeps in, gilding everything in sight a fair ochre. A birdl flies in, a falcon, and lands on Nemo's shoulder. Nemo smiles down at it, until, with a chirp, the bird takes off again, twisting through the opening and finding the sky again. 

Merlin shakes free of his vision and pushes off his bed. The rest of the night he spends preparing potions for his patients. Since he knows he won't get a wink of sleep, he tries reading next. He soon realises though that he's not making sense of the text he's parsing, and that changing volumes won't help. When he understands that no intellectual pursuit can keep him engaged long enough to placate his worries, he takes to pacing the length of his home.

When dawn comes, Merlin flings himself out of his insula flat and starts on his rounds. Caring for his patients at least stops him from counting the hours till he's allowed to see Nemo. 

The following days go by in much the same fashion and it's only because he throws himself into his work that he manages to deal with the wait. In the meanwhile he loses a bit of weight and his eyes acquire gauges under them. A least though he's not willing the sun to go down faster all the time. Well, not anymore.

At last the appointed hour does come.

When the litter trundles into Merlin's street, night lies like a shroud over Rome. With a creak of wood and a rattle of joints, the slaves put it down. A hand parts the veils that shield the litter. Sophia beckons to him and Merlin hurries over. “Climb in and we can go.”

Merlin observes the conveyance. It's decked with green silks and large cushions, veils. “I'll walk.”

“Shut up and climb in,” Sophia says, tugging him downwards and onto the litter. “Gods, you're such a time waster.”

“But will they manage?” Merlin says, nodding at the porters. 

“Of course they will,” Sophia tells him with a sniffle. “They're six five, physician. And twice as big as you.”

“Well, I--”

“Just shut up.” She rolls her eyes.

The streets at night are shifting with shadows, moonlight playing hide and seek with corners and avenues, with the hulking cavernous shapes of the buildings that line the streets.

Market stalls have disappeared to give way to deserted, leaf strewn pavements. The crates of goods generally littering them have been moved to other storage places. Shop fronts have been barred and bolted, chained across with huge rusty padlocks that knock and slam against the wooden surfaces they rest upon, shaken by a night wind that's as restless as the noises that haunt the area.

Cats mewl and dogs bark in response, roaming the city with their soft padding and heavy breathing. 

In the part of town they cross there are no street lamps and all is darkness. The only light there is comes from the torch hooked to the litter. It sheds light in arcs that provide them with glimpses of desolate alleys and grim looking buildings. 

 

Merlin shivers subtly. A little longer, he tells himself, but at the pace they're going at, it will take a while before they reach their destination.

Eventually, after they've by-passed empty street after empty street, the litter is lowered. 

“Come with me,” Sophia says as she's helped up by her bearers. 

Merlin trails after her. Her pace's quick, determined, as is the frown on her face. 

Crossing the street she comes at the gladiator school from the south. She knocks on a door Merlin hasn't been shown to before and is ushered by a pale woman whose complexion shines in the night. 

“Please, my lady,” the woman says, as she leads them down stairs hewn in rock. Flambeux throw distorted shadows that glissade over uneven walls and a stairwell that plunges them downwards. “Watch out. The steps are worn.”

Though at first he's disorientated, Merlin soon realises they've come to Nemo's cell, only from a different angle. “You have what remains of the night,” Sophia says. “Spend it well.”

The moment Merlin enters, Nemo stands up. He's looking good, wide and strong, a little bit tan, which means he must have continued training outside, even in Merlin's absence. “Merlin,” he gasps when he sees him.

“You wanted....” Merlin starts saying, until he realises that's not what he wants to open with. “I apologise... For not telling you about my agreement with--”

“Please,” Nemo cuts him off, raising a hand. “I know why you did it. And I know you didn't mean me any harm, Merlin.”

Merlin bounces up and down on his toes. “Still, I'm sorry,” he says, because he owes Nemo a proper apology, a heartfelt one, because he can't bear to be the one who's made him suffer when it could have been helped. “I'm sorry you were hurt by my actions. I wish I could undo them...”

“Merlin,” Nemo says, walking up to him, curling his fingers around Merlin's forearm. “I...” Nemo reworks his stance, rolling his shoulders back and lifting his head. “I have to apologise too. I reacted badly.”

“I don't think you did,” Merlin breathes out, heart beating too fast just because Nemo is touching him, gently like a friend, like not everything's lost. “For a while there, when we were apart, I did resent the fact you didn't see what was in my heart. I was cut up about it, but I never resented you. I get it.” Merlin stumbles over his words. “You were right.”

Nemo pulls Merlin to him, in a hard embrace that's all chest and a solid pat on the back, but that, for all its awkwardness, writes a notch in Merlin's heart, makes him Nemo's, through and through. “You're forgiven.”

“I wasn't hoping for it.” 

With a huff and a little sniffle on Merlin's part they separate. They stand there looking at each other, Merlin's with eyes made soft and wet by emotion, Nemo's rounded and guileless.

“I value honesty above all things,” Nemo tells him, breaking the impasse and drawing him to sit on his pallet. They both sink down and slide to its edge, flight or fight, feet on the floor in mirror poses. “But lately I've come to appreciate it even more.”

“I do understand,” Merlin says, breathing out. He has a lot more to say. At home and then on the way over he thought long and hard about how to apologise, about the correct wording, and how much of himself he was willing to bare. Now though a hot rush of blood to the head makes him incapable of articulating what he means. “You should. Value honesty and tell me off for my lack of it...”

“Merlin.” Nemo takes his hand though he stares straight ahead, squeezing his fingers but not his palm. “I didn't tell you that so you could apologise again.”

“I know.” Merlin gnaws on his lip, realises he's maybe talked over Nemo. “I know. Sorry.”

“I mentioned that because...” Nemo bends over, buries his head in his free hand. His back lifts with the depth of the breath he sucks in. “In your absence... Your absence...”

“Nemo,” Merlin says, choked.

Nemo pivots so he's angled towards Merlin, his gaze fixed on him, so focused it's as though he thinks he can convey everything he's thinking just by virtue of it. “I knew it before and yet your absence cemented it.”

“I don't get what you're saying.”

“You're different, Merlin,” Nemo says, reaching out with his fingers to touch Merlin's face. In spite of the rough of Nemo's calluses catching on Merlin's skin, it's a tentative touch. “And that's why what you did hit me so—”

Merlin starts, but Nemo hushes him with a finger on his lips.

“I could probably forgive you anything under the sun, Merlin,” Nemo says, casting his eyes down, though after an intake of breath that fills his torso wide he levels his gaze back on Merlin. “Because of what I feel for you. I...”

Merlin holds his burst of love for Nemo in his lungs.

“I cannot suppress it, I cannot get over it,” Nemo says. “You are in my thoughts, constantly.”

With a voice far too broken to probably carry meaning, Merlin says, “You are not alone in that.”

Nemo's eyes round with something that looks to Merlin like affection, surprise, a softness that makes his eyes clearer and far brighter. His astounded, wide-eyed gaze bores into Merlin as if he's trying to gauge the truth of Merlin's confession. Merlin lets him look, lets him see. “Aren't I?” he says low in his throat, as though he's on the verge of crying, even if he's smiling.

“No,” Merlin says, “there's this other fool here who's quite taken with you.”

Nemo runs a finger up Merlin's neck. “Now the question is how much, because that's impo--”

Merlin dives and kisses Nemo on the mouth. 

Grabbing his face in his hands, fingers splayed wide along the hot of Merlin's cheeks, Nemo opens wide. With a snuffle he draws Merlin's tongue in his mouth, and licks at it with his own. Merlin sighs, the kiss filling his upper body, his lungs, his ribs, his torso with a melting sensation that lasts until Nemo pushes him back. “You ought to know first,” he says breathless, chest rising and falling. "You ought to know."

“I ought to know what?” Merlin asks again, feeling sure the kiss made him stupid and that's why he doesn't follow, doesn't understand why Nemo's put a stop to their kiss.

Depriving Merlin of the warmth his closeness brings, Nemo rises, walks to the door, and puts his ear to it. After a few seconds spent in utter silence, he retreats to the bed, and sits back down. “Nemo isn't my real name, Merlin.”

“I figured,” Merlin says. “Like Percival, who's also called Montanus. It's a stage name...”

“Merlin,” Nemo says, with a gusty sigh. “I have no name because I didn't give my owners one.” Nemo's mouth purses around the word 'owner'. “I withheld it because I was keeping my identity secret.”

“I understand why you wouldn't...” Words heard earlier that week echo in Merlin's mind, becoming more and more insistent. It'd make sense too. The haughtiness, that attitude Nemo exudes, that expectation he entertains of others as though he thinks it's their place to serve him and obey him. Even his fighting skills... It all fits yet it seems absurd. “Who are you, Nemo?”

Nemo kneels at Merlin's feet between the bracket of his legs. He looks Merlin in the eye and in a low and steady voice says, “The Romans call me Artorius, son of Uther, king of the Albionenses. But my people and those closest to me call me something else. In my language....” He takes Merlin's hand. “To them I'm Arthwr.”

“Arthwr?” Merlin tries the name on for size, rolls it off his tongue as he would a word native to his real language. It still sounds foreign to him, neither the Latin he's grown used to nor the Veneli language that is still of his heart. But it sounds perfect. Perfect for this man and all that he is. “Arthwr...”

“Yes.” Arthwr smiles so gently Merlin thinks his bones will soften if he takes that expression in for much longer. “That's my name. That's who I am.” He leans up to give a kiss to Merlin's lips, to the the bow of the upper one first, touching the lower one second. “I like you saying my name. It fits.”

“That's how,” Merlin says, finally starting to make sense of the puzzle he's been presented with. “How you came to be a gladiator.”

“I was ambushed, attacked, kidnapped and sold,” Arthwr's gaze becomes fixed and shadowed. “Many men belonging to my personal guard died trying to stop it. But... My uncle...”

Merlin knows how this story goes; he was told at the palace, though they didn't know it would be of interest to him, how close to home it would cut. “Gods, Arthwr.”

“He betrayed me,” Arthwr says, his mouth a thin line. “So he could take the throne even though he had no right to it.”

“I'm sorry he did this to you,” Merlin says, reaching out for Arthwr's heart. “I'm so sorry.”

“I trusted him,” Arthwr says, with a little sob at the end. He butts his head against Merlin's knee, rubbing against it. One of his hands grips the edge of the pallet, the other is on Merlin's thigh. “He was family.”

With Arthwr so close Merlin can't stop himself from threading his fingers through his hair, separating the strands. “No wonder you doubted my loyalty.”

“I don't,” Arthwr says, reaching for his mouth, opening it softly with his lips. “I told myself that I owed it to myself and to my people not to trust you.”

“Arthwr, you don't have to tell me all this, your secrets.”

“But I have to,” Arthwr says, cupping his nape, bringing their foreheads together. “I can't not be honest with you while I want to kiss you. I want to be with you as Prince Arthwr.”

“I would be with you,” Merlin says, his face stinging with self-conscious heat, “even if you still had no name.” He nuzzles Arthwr's face, his jaw, kisses his forehead, places a peck between his eyes. “Because of who you are.”

Arthwr's catches his lips with his, his tongue enters his mouth, licking at Merlin's before gliding along the soft arch of his palate, behind his teeth. They rub their lips together until Merlin's tingle and burn. Their kisses deepen so that Merlin is rolling his tongue in Arthwr's mouth, delighted, light of chest, drunk on sensation. When Arthwr pushes back into him, Merlin pulls him back onto the cot, rallies him to him. As their kiss wax and wanes then starts again, they lock fingers, tight, so every tight, a step away from crushing bones.

Merlin's mouth skims down Arthwr's neck to the collarbones exposed by his tunic. He mouths its shape, the protuding line of it, nipping his skin. With broad sweeps of his palms, he caresses his arms, kneads the rounds of his muscles and the sweep of his tendons, the length of his bones. 

Short of breath and shaking with it, with the euphoria of touch, he presses his hands over Arthwr's ribs, feeling the warmth of his body that seeps over to him in spite of the clothing between them. 

Feverish, his thoughts quite scattered with the kneed to know this man, his hands skitter over Arthwr's form, trying to impress a memory of him on his senses. They revel in this, in the myryad inputs they collect.

His breath comes fast, his thoughts thin to nothing. Merlin conflagrates with desire, his power playing under his skin, his eyes seeing and not seeing as his feelings become colour and light. 

Arthwr's bright as a new dawn, his light as powerful as the sun's. His breath infuses Merlin with a spark that's like new life.

Panting, Arthwr draws back, his head tipped back so he can meet Merlin’s gaze. “I want you,” he says on a choked whisper. He digs his thumb into Merlin's scalp, slowly circles it round and round. “I want to lie with you.” He continues petting Merlin, soothing the tremors Merlin experiences. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, kissing his wrist, nibbling his pulse-point. “You have me.”

“If I was free,” Arthwr says. “If I was free I'd offer more than this. You'd be treated with honour. I'd make you...”

“I don't care about what you could give me,” Merlin whispers frantically, his brain and his heart racing too much for a calm recitation. “But I can try and buy your freedom.”

“You know you can't,” Arthwr says, cradling his face. “You know you don't have the means.”

Merlin can't say that's not the truth. All he has is a debt with Gaius and an old torc. It's his last tie to his past but he'd give that up in a heartbeat if it could just buy Arthwr's freedom. “Yes, but if I work harder, if I...”

Arthwr kisses his forehead, his lips hot and a little wet. “I'll fight for my freedom. I'll fight till I can call myself my own man, have you, if you so will, and return to my people.”

It seems like a tall order, but Merlin believes Arthwr's capable of it. He fears for him, of course, but if that's what Arthwr wants, Merlin will help. “I'll watch by the sidelines. I'll be there every moment along the way.”

“That's going to be a great motivator,” Arthwr says, pressing his twitching lips against Merlin's. “I'll fight with that in mind tomorrow.”

Merlin doesn't want to think about what happens tomorrow in the arena, about how helpless he is in all of this. He wants to give of himself to Arthwr, lie with him, till he can't tell his body from his. 

He wants that with a depth of need that's driving him fairly mad. He's missing Arthwr before he by all rights should. Thoughts of tomorrow -- close, so close – make him frantic, make him hurry.

He undoes his own belt and reaches for the hem of his tunic, pulling it off in one go, baring himself till Arthwr can see everything. He puts Arthwr's hand on the jut on his cock and feels him breathe out hard and rattled more than he hears him. Arthwr's palm is firm and scalding around Merlin's reddened prick, but then the sun stretches its light across the cell and a voice outside the door calls out. “It's dawn. Up and about. We're all off to Ostia.”

Merlin's grip tightens on Arthur. “No,” he says. “I'll fight in your stead, I'll...”

Arthwr's arm's on his, his mouth's on his, when he says. “Wait for me,” before he tears himself off Merlin and stands, feet apart and arms stretched along the length of his body, his hands done into fists. He closes his eyes and his face loses all its gentleness, all of its softness. In one go it becomes a mask of tension, muscles pulling at his cheeks, hollowing them just as his jaw stubbornly pushes outwards.

With a step he's at the door. He knocks, calls out, “I'm ready.”

 

****

 

With legs that threaten to tumble him, Merlin makes his way to his seat in the arena. Breathless with all the pushing and shoving he's done to get to it, he sinks down on the bench, hands on his thighs. He trembles, the initial tremor instigating more shivers. To stop them he curls his fingers inwards.

The fight hasn't started yet. The clouds are too thick for that, threatening rain. A rain shower would cause most of the audience to up and leave. If that happened there'd be a chance the games would be postponed. No game orgainiser would want to waste his fighters on a small audience.

Peering up, Merlin preys for the sky to crack with thunder, for the horizon to close up, but the weather holds. Worse, it improves, a soft yolk-yellow light peering through the dispersing grey cumuli. That puts paid to Merlin's hopes.

When the crowd settles, a murmur rises. Multiple heads swing in the same direction while the escalating buzz of voices coalesces into one word; the emperor. 'What a surprise, he wasn't announced' is the buzz word among the games attendees.

Claudius is being escorted to his seat, which is placed on a canopied balcony jutting out over the arena. He's flanked by men in rich togas who sit either side of him and tall praetorians whose armour shines with polish.

At the emperor's command, drums sound and the gladiators flood the arena. 

Arthwr marches to the centre of it with a steady, assured gait and his head held high. Though at the periphery of his field of vision Merlin can distinguish Percival as well as four other men who look almost all alike in their body armour, Merlin has no eyes but for Arthwr.

Even if Merlin's high up in the stands Arthwr finds him with his eyes too. They hold gazes for a moment, a brief one that Merlin wants to prolong till it becomes never-ending. But Arthwr has to turn, put a stop to it, because he must go through the hoops, observe the ritual. And he does. 

In one body the gladiators salute the emperor, remind him of their impending deaths. The emperor rises again and with him does the whole arena. The folds of his toga flapping in the wind, Claudius gives the signal. The fight is on.

The gladiators hoist their weapons, and move, sword against trident, sword parrying sword. With his a man kills his opponent, rapid and brutal. It's the first casualty of this day's games. As soon as his opponent is down, he turns on Percival, who's now defending himself from two attackers rather than only one like the others.

Merlin wishes him well but he can no longer pay attention to what's going on with him. His gaze must shift to Arthwr. He needs to know what's going on with him or he doesn't think he'll make it to the end of the day.

Down in the arena, Arthwr shuffles his feet in the brown earth. Like his rival he only a has a sword and shield. Unlike his rival he isn't carrying much body armour today, probably because his shoulder still hurts some and the weight of it would hinder him.

Going from utterly still to bursting into a flurry of movement, Arthwr's opponent lunges. Arthwr lifts his shield to counter the move. The dull clang of impact reverberates across the arena, sounding like drums of war, dark, hollow, ominous. Before Arthwr can recover, his opponent charges back with the point of his sword, jabbing the length of it past his shield. With a sideways twist of his body, Arthwr avoids being gutted and blocks the thrust.

The second secutor dances away, putting distance between himself and Arthwr. He feints, bobs his body wholesale this way and that, presenting a shifting target, his movements a blur. Arthwr ducks a thrust to the face, but takes two shallow hits to the shoulder. His cry of pain resonates around the amphitheatre, and within Merlin's ribcage. Something inside Merlin's chest squeezes it tight, nearly close to choking point. Merlin wants to close his eyes and stop his ears. He doesn't want to watch Arthwr suffer, but he must, for he's in this with him.

Arthwr fights on, landing glancing blows on his opponent that slow him down but don't stop him coming for him. Mouth drawn into a tight line, Arthwr matches the other gladiator thrust fort thrust, lifting his shield as by virtue of a sixth sense that allows him to know where the next attack will be coming from.

For a while Arthwr and his opponent seem to have come to a draw. Neither of them can close in; neither can gain the upper hand. 

Probably in an attempt to shake things up, the second secutor changes his fighting style, going quicker now, altering his line of attack so that it never stays the same. This way he may be losing in precision, but he gets more of a shot at Arthwr. With his new tactics, the second secutor manages to keep Arthwr angled sideways, as though he's caught a whiff of Arthwr's weakness, his right shoulder. It becomes the aim of most of his sallies.

Fast on his feet and with a grunt that carries on the air, the second secutor dives, his sword coming down in blinding arc the colour of lightning. It whacks Arthwr on the ankle, leaving him hobbling long enough for the second secutor to close in once more with a brand new feint. With Arthwr thrown by the move, the second secutor acts. He lifts his weapon and brings it down, the blade whistling as it cuts through the air, the aim Arthur's neck, where his helmet doesn't reach.

Merlin once again feels the need to shut out the fight. But he can't not watch. He breathes out, Brigid's name falling from his lips in the softest of murmurs. When it's voiced, the air trembles around him in reverberations that Merlin can see if he squints just so, but that the others around him don't notice at all. It's as if all those ripples don't register with them at all. It probably means Merlin's so tense he's plunged himself into a half vision.

He shakes it off, concentrates on the action in the arena.

In a splash of sand, Arthwr sidesteps, crouching low and avoiding the punishing blow aimed his way. He rolls then, leaving an imprint on the ground, sand on his shins, in his hair, then he's back on his feet, back on the defensive, shield level with his chest. He crouches, pacing around his opponent the way a tiger prances around her cage.

Back at the top of his game, Arthwr smashes his shield against the secutor's body. He slices flesh open and blood fountains out. It's not enough to stop the second secutor.

The shields come together again in a dull clash that rings out across the arena, a crunch of bolts and splintering of wood. 

The two secutors part, tracking each other's moves, setting their feet in such a position that would allow them to spring forwards or away the moment it becomes necessary. They dart, a sword touches a shield, the edge of the other's glances off a gladius. 

The second secutor batters at Arthwr's shield with his own trying to get a cut in, then pivots to get under Arthwr's defences. 

Merlin can tell what he's doing. He's trying to cripple Arthwr so he'll be able to sneak in a fatal blow. He's attempting to call the shots. Though he's not as big as Percival, he's certainly got the wherewithal to try and win this by using his bulk and brute force alone.

But Arthwr's' foot work has him dancing away just at the right moment, so he can dive back into the fight when he's out of the second secutor's range. Merlin can tell that Arthwr's falling back on experience here, that he knows how to do this, that he's seasoned, and bringing logic into the fight. He's wearing the second secutor down by making him put in all the work, by causing him to exert the greatest amount of strength. Arthwr is doing much less, but is already in better shape than the other man, sporting no serious wounds.

“Yes, like that,” Merlin says. “You can win.”

“Indeed he can,” says the man sitting next to him. “I bet on the other one, but now I think I picked the wrong fighter.”

Merlin turns his head aside. He doesn't want to comment on the man's betting. He isn't capable of viewing this massacre as a sport and has no intention to. Not when everything's on the line for him.

He might be sitting here in the stands, but in his heart he's down there with Arthwr.

Arthwr pushes the second secutor back with shield and sword, grunting, sweating, but succeeding in clearing a viable angle to launch a new attack from. At the very last second the rival secutor pulls up his shield, managing to defend his side, but his ability to keep up with Arthwr's manoeuvring doesn’t last. Not when Arthwr sweeps in after he stumbles. With a groan Arthwr batters his rival's shield away with his, and slips his gladius underneath, plunging his weapon into the man's belly. 

The second secutor staggers back, slicing his sword in the air before dropping it. He crumples down in an ungainly heap, his fingers reaching for his gladius. Arthwr walks to him, slow, poised, points his sword at the man's throat and looks to the emperor's box.

No sooner has he done so, than his head snaps to the right, where Percival has fallen. The crowd rises with indignation at the snub to the emperor, then gasps as Percival rolls to avoid being speared by a trident. At the same time one of the two gladiators Percival is facing cuts at him with the side of his shield. 

After he's kicked the gladius away from his first opponent, Arthwr makes for the man threatening Percival, engaging him in a bout of thrust and risposte. This gives Percival time to pick himself up and defend himself from the sallies of the retiarius he's engaged.

The retiarius pokes at him with his trident, sweeping the net at his feet. Despite his mass, Percival lightly jumps backwards, twists sideways, and meets the charge of the retiarius. In one fast, decisive move, he plunges his sword forward, skewering his adversary.

Murmurs rise. It's clear the fight is coming to an end. Only Arthwr has an opponent left standing.

Extending his arm back and up, at face level, Arthwr holds his gladius firm. His new enemy and he circle each other, looking for weaknesses, palpable mistakes, a stumble, anything. Arthwr blocks a feint, then another. Before they can get locked in an impasse, Arthwr spins round. Arcing his sword up, he whirls back round, the momentum carrying him. It brings the sword crashing down on his adversary.

Merlin can hear the sickening crack of bone giving way, wishes the wound healed. It's his nature. He's always wanted to put an end to suffering, not to revel in it. In this case, though, he knows that it's this man's or Arthwr's life, so it's different. With a pang, Merlin realises that he can't be impartial. He can't give his support to everybody, not as unconditionally as he usually does as a physician. He must choose and it comes easy, too much so. No doubts about it, however much bile rises in his throat at the thought of how cruel it is -- he is --, he's chosen Arthwr.

Still he can't forget his background and mission entirely and can only hope that the man Arthwr downed wil meet a swift end that won't allow him to suffer much. It seems that it's about to come too, for the man drops his sword, reels. Arthwr stalks him. He hits him with the point of his shield, blooding his temple. But it's not the killing blow everyone was expecting. Arthwr's adversary staggers to his knees and then flops to the side, not dead.

The audience clamours. Though he's heavily incapacitated his opponents, Arthwr hasn't killed any of them today. Sputters of other's people blood on his face, Arthwr looks to the emperor's stand. 

With a grunt, Claudius gets up, the pleats of his toga cascading around him, the gold thread of its embroidery catching the light of the sun.

Heads swivel in his direction, waiting for a verdict. Merlin, too, would like to know what happens next, if the men Arthwr's faced today will die or if Arthwr will be punished for not supplying the spectacle he was supposed to provide.

Claudius pushes past his retinue and disappears into an archway. The crowd falls silent but for this low buzz, this frantic murmur that waves around the arena. 

Pools of crimson spreading around them, the wounded gladiators moan. The two fallen men Percival killed lie still, their limbs exhibiting the laxness of death. Merlin knows it will soon turn into unbending rigidity. Percival and Arthwr stand, bodies taut, waiting for the outcome of today's fighting, Claudius' decision as to their destiny.

To a chorus of applause, the emperor walks onto the sand of the arena, the folds of his toga draped over his arm. Flanked by two praetorians, he rolls up to the two gladiators left standing. He comes to a halt before Percival, shares a look with his praetorian, and then says something Merlin can't make out. Percival lowers his head, mutters something. Merlin hopes he didn't just receive his death sentence.

Claudius moves onto Arthwr. “You killed your own opponent and saved your friend,” he says to him. “You could have despatched your rival and let your friend fend for himself.”

“There would have been no honour in that,” Arthwr says, loud and clear, rounding his gaze across the arena. “I couldn't stand by and watch.”

Merlin sucks in a breath, squints, closes his fist till his nails cut half-moons into his palm.

Claudius nods. “Most wouldn't risk their lives that way.” He cocks his head. “Most wouldn't dare speak out as you have.”

“I must though,” Arthwr says, inching his chin upwards. “I must speak my mind, tell the truth.”

Claudius circles round him, assessing, then resumes his previous position, facing Arthwr. “Such nobility is rare.”

Arthwr says nothing.

“Very much so indeed,” Claudius continues, tapping his chin. “What is your name, secutor?”

“Nemo,” Arthwr says, flexing his hand around the hilt of his gladius. 

“A man with no name,” Claudius says, cocking his head back to look Arthwr full in the face. “Or a man with a name only fit for the arena?”

Arthwr says, “The former.” He pauses, his face blank, but drawn tight. “Caesar.”

Claudius tugs at the pleats of his toga, the hem coated in globules of arena dust. “A mystery man,” he says. “Such a man is always interesting. There's always more one wants to know about such a conundrum of a person.”

“That can be unwise,” Arthwr says.

“You're right,” Claudius says, creases sharpening his brow, “disappointment may follow.” He nods his head. “Or it might not.”

Arthwr doesn't comment. He compresses his lips.

“You must come to the palace,” Claudius says, as though he was continuing a conversation that isn't mostly one sided. “You and your friend.”

“Caesar,” Percival says, whipping his head up.

“You must perform for us,” Caesar says. “We'll pit you one against the other, we'll throw in one or two of my praetorians too. Let's see who wins.”

“Caesar,” says Percival, his eyes mobile, cast down on the turf of the arena. “I can't in good faith fight against Nemo.”

“No, of course you can't,” Caesar says, watching Nemo rather than Percival, who's spoken. “You won't be asked to harm the man who saved you, not by me, not in my palace. Yours shall be a mock fight.”

Both Arthwr and Percival bow their heads in assent.

Claudius rakes his toga up again, exposing his sandals. “You have your lives,” he says then. “And so do your opponents.” He bestows a glance on the men lying on the sand, barely conscious. “What remains of it, alas. “I'll be seeing you soon, noble warriors.”

The preatorians falling into step behind him, Claudius disappears back into the archway he emerged from.

 

**** 

 

“You can't go,” Merlin says, throwing his hands up in the air as he paces Arthwr's cell. “You mustn't.”

Arthwr watches him walk back and forth from his perch on the pallet. “Merlin, let me describe you the Albionenses' relationship to Rome. As a client kingdom we should have enjoyed its protection, but the empire only ever stood by so that Romans could profit by our losses. You can certainly see how I'm not a friend to Rome. Even so, I don't think I can get out of of an order such as that, not without ruining my plans for freedom.”

“Arthwr--” Merlin stops in his tracks, lets his gaze pool on Arthwr, “You're not getting me. They're onto you.”

Arthwr tenses. “What do you mean they're onto me?”

“I didn't tell you before because things happened fast between us,” Merlin says, smacking the side of his own head, “but I was there when they talked about it.”

Arthwr places two fingers against his temple. “Stop, Merlin, stop. I'm still not getting what you're talking about.”

“Last week,” Merlin says, “I was at the palace.”

“You were at the palace,” Arthwr repeats, his tone low, his words jumbled. “You're friends then...”

“With the emperor?” Merlin scoffs. “Obviously not. I don't think he hates me but that's not even the point.”

“So what's the point of your ramblings, Merlin?” Arthwr asks, an amused smile flickering on his face before his mouth thins with worry again.

“The point is they know you're here.”

Arthwr stands. “You mean Claudius knows who I am?”

Merlin waves his hands about in a gesture of denial. “Not like that. But Plautius knows that after his abduction Prince Artorius was taken to Italy. He even suspects he's in Rome. How long before he puts two and two together and realises you are him?”

“He's never seen me,” says Arthwr, plonking back down. “Neither has Claudius.”

“But they do have spies,” Merlin says, having been in Rome long enough to know that men in that profession thrive, especially at the palace. “Agents just come back from the British Kingdoms. Diplomats who served in your court. What if one of them identifies you?”

“I must run the risk,” Arthwr says on the rear end of a sigh. “Not going would alert them to something fishy going on.”

Merlin's shoulders drop. Arthwr's not wrong. His absence would draw attention to him, not away from him. “You have to go,” he concludes, though coming to terms with that fact doesn't calm him in the least.

“Yes,” Arthwr says, catching his hand as Merlin passes, locking their fingers together. “I have to go.”

Merlin stops, breathes hard. “But going won't ensure your safety. You might even be playing into their hand.”

“That doesn't change anything,” Arthwr says, pushing his chin out. “I can't not go without making them suspicious and that's not in my plans. I'll fight whomever, even the emperor, so I can win my freedom and go back home.” Arthwr slides his hand up his flank, looks at him out of earnest, outsize eyes. 

Affection pulses through Merlin in powerful waves that nearly leave him unable to stand, to talk, to act. Because this is an emergency, he masters himself as best he can, shoves his feelings down, and says, “They'll try and ferret out your identity.”

“Let them.”

“No, you can't sit back and let them act as they please,” Merlin says. He's not willing to leave anything to chance. “We must be prepared.”

“In principle I agree,” Arthur says, his attention focusing so deeply on him, Merlin feels like he's standing in the glow of the sun. “On a battlefield... that would work. But what can I do in the circumstances, Merlin? Claudius has the winning hand. He can order me about. I can't backtrack and I can't reveal my identity, because if I do, they'll use me to get what they want politically.”

“You must escape then,” Merlin says, the thought making hope vibrate in his chest.

Arthwr inclines his head, looks like he's paying attention, then sighs. “If it was feasible, I'd have tried before, believe me. But unfortunately Marcellus has guards who make flight next to impossible.”

“I know that,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes. It's not as though he hasn't noticed the security in place. Gladiators are Marcellus' asset. He wouldn't let them go so easily. “But you've never been asked to the palace before.”

“True.” Arthwr scratches his head. “But Marcellus' guards will escort me there as they do every time we're to be moved somewhere. I don't see how I could escape when I've never been able to before.”

“There must be a way.” 

“Not at the palace,” Arthwr says, winging an eyebrow. “There'll be praetorians there on top of Marcellus' men.”

“Not as you return,” Merlin says. “There won't be.”

“It'll still be me against a handful of Marcellus' guards,” Arthwr points out. “It'll be me against at least ten of them. It's odds I can try and face but...” 

Dread trundles up Merlin's insides, freezing his spine and dotting his forehead with cold sweat. “You can't face ten men alone.”

“I can certainly try.”

“We need help.”

“Who can I ask it of?” Arthwr says, lifting his shoulders. 

“Me.”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, rattling off a sigh. “You're a physician, not a warrior.”

Merlin sinks down on the pallet next to Arthwr, his shoulders rounded with the weight of worry. “I know I'm not, but I'll fight with you, side by side, all the same.”

“I wouldn't want you to,” Arthwr says, grabbing his arm. “You have no training. You'd be dead in a matter of seconds.”

“That's for me to choose.”

Arthwr clamps his eyes. “I'd be responsible for that. For your death. I don't want to be.”

Merlin pushes off the the pallet once again, wrings his hands. “I'm sure Percival will help too.”

“He'd be risking his life for nothing...”

“No,” Merlin says, intercepting Arthwr's gaze. “He'd be fighting for his freedom too.”

“Still...”

“Let me ask him if he thinks it's worth the risk?” Merlin says, trying to infuse as much assurance as he can in his tone. “Actually, let me plan this. Let me help!”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, raking both hands through his hair, “I don't know.”

“Do you trust me?” Merlin asks, and he knows he's shouldn't toy with Arthwr's sense of loyalty, but he suspects that if he doesn't Arthwr will try to act on his own and get killed in the bargain. Merlin has other plans. “At least a little?”

“I trust you wholly,” Arthwr says, and blast it, his honesty is capable of driving bleeding holes in Merlin's heart.

“Then let me do this,” Merlin says. “Let me do this for you. I'll appraise you of the plan as soon as I have it smoothed out.”

Arthwr seals his acquiescence with a kiss.

 

*****

Merlin leaves his house before sunrise the next morning. The air is thin as it always is this early in the day, and just as transparent, a faint peach tint mellowing the horizon line, transecting the hills Rome is built on. 

Making good pace, Merlin crosses the city, passes areas thronged with buildings and starting to be crowded with hundreds of citizens, and ends up in one dotted with domūs, their gardens covering acres of cultivated soil, holding sway over a neighbourhood of hilly countryside.

Here the air tastes like pine and cypress bark, crispy, fresh. It has a minty tang it. It gently inflates his lungs, tickles them into expanding, taking bigger, lustier breathes. He enjoys the act for the simple pleasure it is. 

The area has a beauty that none of his usual haunts possesses. Here you can't sense the smell of low quality food sold by cart vendors, and you can't inhale the stench of human sweat that lingers in the busiest side streets Rome is strewn with. Wind scores this road in a way atypical of Rome, where buildings – temples, insula complexes, palaces – obstruct it.

The path gently winds around dip and rises. They are coasted at the sides by semi-wild groves, olive trees and thorny bushes. Bees play around them in search of flowers to impollinate. 

The beaten track shines a supple, earthy russet. 

Carts drawn by horses, ox, or asses, and laden with produce cross his path, trundling towards Rome. They bear all manner of merchandise. The apples piled onto the crates they carry are red and round, their peel a little waxy, shiny. The grapes loll limply in boxes that are as wide as the span of Merlin's arms. The barrels are made from oak staves, and lined up one against the other. They stand tall, fatter at the middle.

As they overtake him, Merlin salutes the farmers bound for Rome, wishes them a good day. Once, notably, it's the horse that nickers back. 

Somehow that puts a smile on his face that lasts him for miles.

Sun further up than when he started, he knocks on the door to Cornelius Pulcher's home. A servant draped in browns opens. “Yes,” she asks, her face devoid of interest or curiosity as to his identity. 

“Good Morning,” Merlin says, not revealing who he is, “I'm here to see Sophia Pulchra.”

“My mistress isn't up yet,” the slave says, trying to close the door on him. “Come again some other time.”

Merlin grabs the door, wedges a foot in even though he fears the slave girl will crush it. “Please, it's important.”

“She will not want to be disturbed,” the slave says pointedly.

“I can wait at her leisure,” Merlin says, downright pleading. “You won't even know I'm there.” He smiles as genially as he can. “I'll be as quite as a mouse.”

“Very well,” the slave says with tired sigh, “follow me.”

They walk along a colonnaded peristilium until they reach a large door that ushers them into a moderately sized chamber. They don't stop there. The slave conducts him along a gallery lined with gilded busts of gods and goddesses, lusciously breasted beauties and philosophers, the white of the marbles fusing with the gold of the gildings, generating a pale evanescent aura that suffuses the whole premises. Vases set on plinths choke with yellow flowers with tiny petals, purple ones with a dark centre, and white ones like small bells dangling from the top of their stems. They take up the colour scheme of the draperies, light ones that stir in the breeze and heavier one that pool heavily over alcoves and doorways. Cabinets line the corridor and serve to display trophies and ornaments, weapons, figurines, onyx knicknacks.

“This way,’ the slave says, indicating a passageway that leads into a wide chamber.

Following the slave, Merlin steps in.

“Wait here,” she says, indicating the rows of couches. “My mistress will see you when she'll see you.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, sitting on the edge of a divan. “I'll-- thank you.”

Minutes pass as Merlin waits in silence, hands on his knees, one foot tucked behind the other. He measures time by the sunlight flooding the room, inch by inch, corner by corner. He plays a game with the shadows that encroach upon the room; he squints hard and cocks his head to see if their appearance changes. And indeed it does. If he tilts his head right, the shadows stretch left and the opposite happens if he inclines his head the other way. And if he focuses hard, he can almost fancy he's tweaked their shape, morphed the shadows into nearly familiar objects, whorls and twists and licks of ambient light appearing like household items, animals, people.

When he grows bored with that, he starts drumming his fingers on his thigh, then takes to humming. With nothing to do and no notion as to when Sophia will appear, he keeps his eye fixed on the wall opposite and tries to be as patient as he can. 

He allows his mind to drift back to his worries, the fear that Claudius will discover who Arthwr is while Merlin's trying to come up with an escape plan on his behalf, to this dread he has he won't see Arthwr flee Rome any time soon, or alive at all. Merlin may be no mastermind, but since this matters to him so much, he knows he'll do his best not to botch Arthwr's escape. There's no reason why he should. All his fears must surely be paranoia. The emperor's people can't have twigged on the fact that he's helping Arthwr. As far as they know, he's completely unconnected to him, only a physician, and thus a free agent. Hopefully, they haven't cottoned on.

Unless, they've had him followed. But why would they? Merlin's a nobody and they can't be aware of the way Arthwr has impressed himself on Merlin's heart. The can't have sniffed out the connection. 

Being racked by these thoughts is torture. Merlin's breath dissipates on a sigh and he tries to empty his mind of them.

Where the hell is Sophia? It's late enough now that even a pampered aristocrat should be up and about. Why is she keeping him waiting? Soles clap along ties. He spies a shadow, but soon realises that it's nothing more than a leonine household cat pawing the length of the corridor. He rubs its orange fur against a wall and disappears round a corner that edges into a passagway.

When no one else appears – at least no one human -- Merlin takes a detour of the room. 

He paces it from one length to the other, maps the distance between the divans, then circles the bronze statue standing in the middle. It portrays a naked man, his leg forward, his thigh corded with muscle, his arm pulled back as if he's about to throw an invisible discus. Even though he's nothing but metal, the knit of his sinews seems to dance under his skin. The subject seems to be tiptoeing on air; to be in the middle of twisting around, caught in a moment, between a spark of life, a gusty breath of it, and the next. Sunlight sparkles off his angles, his tendons, his sculpted hair, strand standing apart from strand in subtle grooves of exquisite metalwork. 

It's perfection and Merlin wants to touch the statue because all his senses are being fooled into believing this cast of bronze is a living, breathing man. He needs to reassure himself it's not so by way of touch; he wants to be reminded of this piece's lifelessness. 

When he does graze it with the flat of his fingertips, the muscles ripple under his touch and he almost fancies the bronze gives under his fingers in the way of human skin, its copper hues, even though traced through with rust, momentarily simulating the colour of flesh. 

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” Sophia asks as she enters the room, her stola trailing after her in faint plaits of light green that look like a waterfall juxtaposed to wind tossed grass. “Such perfection. It makes you wish he were real and you could fuck him.”

Merlin blinks, drops his hand. “My lady.”

“Physician.” She clasps her hands together along her front and cocks her head to the side.

Merlin pushes off his toes, lands back on the flat of his feet. “I find you well today.”

“Please, don't bother with euphemisms,” she says, curling a lock of hair around her finger as she saunters over to him. “I already know I look good. My toilette lasted two hours. Besides, you most certainly didn't come here to sing my praises.”

“No,” he acknowledges with a tip of his head. “I'm here because I need your help.”

“You need my help?” she repeats, leaning against him, her head on his shoulder, her body angled away from him, as her hair, cascading in soft meshes of blond that have a touch of auburn to them, brushes against his arms and chest, his hands. “Really?”

Merlin swallows. “Well, not me really,” he says. “Nemo does.”

“Nemo.” She pushes off him, taking a stroll across the room, holding the hem of her stola up, so that Merlin can see the lacing of her golden sandals. “I'd love to help him. But then you know that or you wouldn't have come.”

“I guessed,” Merlin says, rubbing the tip of his finger across his eyebrow, “that if you were willing to lend a hand once you wouldn't be opposed to doing the same again.”

“Shrewd thinking,” Sophia says, stopping in her meandering, once again toying with one of her locks. Her hair's so long she can coil length upon length of it around her index. “What it is that you want me to do this time? Lend you more money? Beguile away a guard?”

Merlin shakes his head, his heart weary when he says, “It's much more dangerous than that.”

Sophia Pulchra's eyes narrow, sparkle. “More dangerous how?”

“You're going to pit yourself against one of the most powerful men in Rome,” Merlin says, wanting to warn her without betraying his biggest secret. 

“I'm interested,” she says, and for a moment he wants to caution her again, but something about her, the hardness that comes upon her face perhaps, stops him, tells him that he'd be an idiot if he questioned her judgement, her resolve. “Tell me more.”

“I need to know something first,” Merlin says, because he can't air his secret, Arthwr's really, without getting some assurances as to her being able to provide the specific kind of help he needs. “Can you supply me with men?”

“I guess you're not organising an orgy, are you?” Sophia deadpans, the side of her mouth curling upwards. 

“No.” Merlin's own lips twist in response. “That's not what I'd be needing these men for.”

“All right,” Sophia says, strumming her lip with her index finger. “No pretty boys then. I can command armed servants.”

“That's what I needed to know,” Merlin says, then adds, “I also need to establish whether your husband would prove to be a hindrance? Would he want to know about your activities? Would he keep your secret?”

Sophia studies him earnestly, eyelashes fluttering. ‘What do you think?’

“Frankly, I have no idea,” Merlin says. He hasn't got Sophia's domestic situation figured out, but realises that he has to understand it if he wants to guarantee Arthwr's safety. “And I don't want to guess with Nemo's life in the balance.”

“Prudent of you,” Sophia says, with a small smile. She blinks her eyes wide. “Or perhaps protective.”

Merlin drops his chin to his chest, not dismissing the notion. “I am his friend.”

Sophia smiles, her eyebrow arching up. “And more. But as for your question. My husband can keep secrets, and has never before opposed a plan of mine.”

“This one is not very legal,” Merlin says, because they both need to know, Sophia and her husband.

She chuckles, a brief snort in the back of her throat. “He supports me in everything I do. Especially when it's illegal.”

Having thought he'd find some opposition when it came to revealing his plan, that he would have to persuade Sophia, Merlin finds himself at a loss for words. “Well, that's... that's...”

“You don't understand rich people, do you, physician?” Sophia asks, wandering back over to him to grab him by the chin. She studies him as though he's some kind of stone with many facets. “Not even a little bit.”

Merlin splutters a little. He bows his head and toys with the end of his belt. “I suppose not.”

“Well,” she says, stepping away, sounding brisk, dismissive. “The point is not having me and my husband figured out, is it?”

“No, I guess not,” Merlin says, shifting his weight.

“Then what's the plan?” Sophia asks. She flutters a hand about. “Of course, if I have passed your reliability tests, that is.”

Merlin smiles, seeking a similar response in Sophia. “You have.”

She leans in and murmurs conspiratorially, “So what is it that you'd have me do?”

Merlin details his plan. He goes over it twice and when she proposes some alterations he includes them. Just to be sure, he recites the whole again and questions her as to her role. 

“I've got it,” she says, long suffering, but she does repeat the particulars to him all the same. “You'll need money,” she says when she's done with her recitation.

“I...” He doesn't have much in the way of gold himself, but he doesn't want to use her that way. “I'll sell all I have.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she says, swishing to the door. “Wait here,” she adds, holding up a finger before exiting the room.

She returns with a red pouch that bulges and jingles, the sound tell-tale enough. 

“I can't accept that,” Merlin says, as she tries to hand it to him. “You know I can't.”

“I know no such thing,” she says, shoving the bag at him, the white silk string that ties it off tickling his knuckles. “To me this is nothing. To you it's the difference between success and failure.”

“I,” Merlin says, his hands trembling. “I don't know what to say.”

“Do it for Nemo,” she says, winking.

He wraps his palms around the bag. “Thank you.”

She leans up and kisses his cheek, the imprint of her lips warm, the flesh of them soft and yielding. “You're welcome, gentle physician.”

Armed with the money, Merlin doesn't waste anytime. He walks all the way back to Rome, to the gladiator school. He prevaricates a little and is let into Marcellus' tablinium. The room is empty so Merlin sits at a table. Marcellus comes in a few minutes afterwards. He's bare to the waist, his chest has been oiled and his hair is wet, combed back. He must have trained with his men or taken part in some such activity. “What are you doing here, physician,” he asks, when his eyes alight on Merlin, “your sessions with Nemo have been paid for for the foreseeable future.”

“I want one with Percival,” Merlin says, raining coins on Marcellus' table.

“I thought you were only partial to Nemo?” Marcellus asks, shaking off his sandals. He goes and sprawls on a triclinium, his legs spread wide, his hands on his reddened knees. “Was I mistaken?”

“Let's say,” Merlin says, squaring his face into hardness, “that I've changed my mind.”

“I'm not sure I get your change of heart,” Marcellus' says, creases steeling his brow. “It's rather sudden.”

“Again let's just say,” Merlin says, toying with the coins he so carelessly dropped on the table, chinking them together, rolling them on his knuckles, “that I've thought about it. I was too naïve before.”

“So you're saying that you're now willing to pay to fuck my gladiators?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, tightening his face, “that's exactly what I'm saying.”

 

**** 

 

A stuccoed pavillion supported by wide doric columns stands in the centre of a landscaped garden that spills over the hill on one side and leads back to the imperial palace on the other. It's as long as it is wide, extending a hundred paces east and west. It has a flat roof shining like snow in the night, its angles rounded at the corner. The structure is guarded by statues tiptoeing on plinths, their forms buttery in their candour, milky in their paleness, dainty, elegant. Inside it couches have been placed one next to the other, all of them arranged around a table shaped like the letter E. On the table food is laden in such quantity there's almost no patch of it that isn't covered in an array of colours that rivals that of the rainbow.

Outside the pavilion peacocks graze the lawns and peck at the flowers starting to bow down in the absence of the sun.

Patricians wrapped in togas and stolas queue for the right to claim one of the couches.

Picking at the sleeves of his tunic, at the torc he's hidden under it for luck, Merlin queues too. He hums and rubs his sleeves, tries not to breathe on the neck of the person standing before him. He digs his foot in the soil, causing the grassy mounds to release a smell of freshly watered earth that makes his senses swim. His head feels so light, his brain so fuzzy that he almost doesn't realise a hand has descended on his shoulder, not until the length of it is being squeezed. “Merlin, the physician,” the person attached to the hand says, “I'm Cornelius Pulcher.”

Merlin breathes out. “The Lady Sophia's husband.”

“My wife sends her regards,” Pulcher says, as they advance towards the pavilion. “She says the potion you gave her is excellent. So excellent, in fact, that she passed it on to her ailing friend Claudia and Claudia's so well now, she's hired a gladiator for her pleasure. His name's Gwaine and he's at her house.”

“I'm glad both your wife and her friend are recovered,” Merlin says, making sure is voice doesn't falter. “And that your wife's friend put her new-found health to good use.” He chuckles there, as if he finds his own joke very funny. “Truly glad.”

“Indeed.” Pulcher advances, pushing Merlin forwards with his momentum. As he does, he passes something to him. The object slips from the folds of his cloak to those of Merlin's. “We ought to enjoy life or what is it for?”

Merlin nods, says something that doesn't make sense to him either while he better secures the object under his cloak, the unbending cold length of it searing his ribs where they press against it. “Yes, we should. By the way, thank you for getting me an invitation. I wouldn't have wanted to miss this banquet for the world.”

Pulcher shepherds Merlin forward. 

Around them Claudius' guests mill past, crowd him. Men and women whisper to each other in soft murmurs that are like a tide lapping at a stretch of shore, their laughter soft, but striving higher. They make for the the couches, find their seats.

Pulcher does too and pushes Merlin into one and Merlin sinks into it, his heart clamouring in his chest, his hands damp, his legs hollow.

“I'll go get you some wine,” Pulcher says, and disappears among the crowd. 

The throng itself has become denser by the minute because new waves of guests flow in from the arches leading back into the palace. Clients, distinguishable by their more modest garb, escort their patrons as they weave around the pavilion's columns, or as they take a stroll through the gardens. Slaves dart about bearing pitchers or trays, carrying meats on their spits and placing them on the table. Soldiers in their feathered helmets court matrons. Praetorians mingle and it's not clear whether they're on duty or merely relaxing. 

Musicians settle on the grass; some carry lutes, others harps they strum to easy, plaintive rhythms. 

Golden and silver lamps shine from the tables, shedding a faint, guttering glow that illuminates the flowers that deck the area. It becomes a phantasmagoria of motion and colour, one playing into the other, the greys of the shadows fusing with the rainbow bursts from the buds.

The sounds of conversation become louder and louder and by the time Pulcher comes back with a cup of wine for Merlin it's become a steady vociferous stream that only quietens when Claudius appears. The emperor begs his guests to continue enjoying the evening, then reclines on his dining couch, his elbow under him, his legs parallel one to the other. 

Dinner begins with a libation to Jupiter. 

Merlin touches his lips to his wine but doesn't do more than wet them, so the echo of the sweet taste lingers palely on his tongue. 

“Do eat, do eat,” Claudius says, and his guests start to partake of the fare offered.

The feast grows more lively. Crowds of slaves pass around carrying garlanded trays laden with courses, meat on trenchers, iced shell fish in bowls, fish on salvers. They bear round terracotta jars that come from inside the palace kitchens and that are filled with redolent honeyed wine. When the jars empty, new vessels are brought out. The guests drink freely and deeply, while passing slaves dressed as nymphs scatter rose petals at their feat.

Musicians appear. Before performing they ask the blessing of Apollo, then the lutenists start their accompaniment. When the melody becomes recognisable, its soft rise and fall lulling the senses, the singer, hand on his heart, eyes uplifted, starts his chant. 

It's a hymn to beauty, to love, to Venus. It is gentle and cadenced, lyrical, a bit moody. It would probably touch Merlin too if his mind wasn't elsewhere. It has the audience enthralled for as long as it lasts though. When it stops, the guests crank out a volley of applause. It has scarcely died down when Claudius rises and says, “I'm glad you enjoyed the performance. Anneus is a fine singer indeed.” A second burst of applause breaks forth. “Indeed, indeed. But the entertainment isn't by any means over.”

An inquisitive murmur rises and the emperor is quick to satisfy the curiosity of his listeners. “A very interesting spectacle is about to take place. Many of you love the gladiatorial games. Indeed many of you love gladiators.”

A few chuckles bubble forth in response to the emperor's witticism. “As some of you may know, the last games featured two heroes of the arena, two noble warriors many would love to see fight again. A few among you were in fact present at the Ostia games that saw them shine.”

A buzz of agreement rises.

“Most were not.” Claudius lifts both hands up and holds them apart, as an orator in the forum would. “For this very reason, I decided to invite them here at the palace so that you could see them in action.”

Again voices coalesce in a whisper of approbation; necks crane with curiosity. 

“...so that you could enjoy their feats of agility and bravery.” Claudius pushes his palm outwards in a placating motion. “So that you could witness them in action without going to the arena. In this instance the arena will come to you.”

A stir of applause wells from the seats and couches. 

“There will be no blood shed tonight,” Claudius says, pivoting slightly so he can address his words to all members of his audience irrespective of their position, “for our gladiators will only perform in a mock fight.”

Merlin can sense the disappointment wean off some members of the crowd.

“But that doesn't mean,” Claudius continues, “that entertainment won't be had. We'll have bets.” Claudius chooses an arbiter by pointing at a man in the crowd. “You'll be free to wager on the best warrior. You can bet on their country of origin. Just pick one. I'll start myself. I say Nemo is Pannonian and that Montanus comes from Dalmatia. What do you think?”

Merlin's heart pumps fast; it feels as though it's being crushed by the words. 

“You can place wagers on my Praetorians too,” Claudius continues as he invites Elianus and a second man into the pavilion. “On whether they can defeat our gladiators or not.” Claudius nods at his men and the two bow. “On how long they will last.”

A barefoot girl passes around the rows of couches with a basket in which she's collecting money for the bets. “If you think the praetorians will win, place your money here,” she says. 

Though Merlin feels distaste coat his tongue, he pours coins into the basket. “How much was it?” the girl asks. Merlin hasn't counted, and says so. 

“But how am I supposed to repay you if you win?” she says. 

The muscles around his mouth tight, Merlin forces out an answer, “I don't mind. I don't want my money back.”

The girl shapes her mouth into an objection, but then Merlin meets her eyes. Her own widen fractionally; she moves on.

Once she has, the emperor reprises his speech. “And now, without further ado, I'll give you your champions.”

Percival and Arthwr step onto the grass before the pavilion, flanked by four praetorians, who then retreat back into the shadows. Perhaps to stress his natural musculature, Percival hasn't been given much body armour to wear. But Arthwr has. He's been outfitted with a gladius, a shield and a pauldron covering his right shoulder. It coils around the length of his arm meeting the bulk of the lorica that has been lent out to him. The lorica's mail plates, which are arranged horizontally across his chest and overlap downwards, shine as he moves, reflecting the glow of the torches illuminating the area before the pavilion. The reflections shape themselves, or so Merlin thinks, into the form of a crouching dragon, a beast that opens his eyes, blinks, its eyes pale amber, and extends its claws, ready to pounce.

Gladi inverted so they're held pommel up, Percival and Arthwr salute the emperor. Claudius nods, welcomes them at the palace, and then waves two of his praetorians forward, one is Elianus, the other a big man who's almost as buff as Percival.

The four of them square off. Percival takes on the big man, Arthwr faces Elianus. 

It's Elianus who moves first, lunging at Arthwr, slashing his blade at him. Arthur responds with a speed matching the one of the attack, lifting his weapon to intercept the gladius coming at him in a wide, sweeping arc. As they meet, the blades tremble. 

With Arthwr dodging blows, a wave of cold fear cycles up Merlin's back, perforates his chest and lungs. He tells himself that this is only a mock fight, that nothing's going to happen to Arthwr before so many spectators, and most especially not when the emperor's promised no bloodshed, but the clang of the blades makes him believe there's strength behind those attacks. Even though the odds of Arthwr having only being lured here to die are low, that doesn't mean Arthwr isn't in danger. Anything might go wrong. 

Avoiding the blow raining on him, Arthwr sidesteps the next attack. Carried by the weight of his own body well past Arthwr's position, Elianus stumbles forward. They both pivot at the same time and end up in a specular spot to the one the other had occupied a few seconds before. 

They dance wide of the other two fighters – Percival and his opponent– and study each other's moves. After a few long seconds of this, Arthur advances quickly and swings his sword at Elianus. Because Arthwr advertises the move quite early, Elianus has time to draw back. The blade of Arthwr's gladius sings an inch away from his nose. 

Elianus gasps as he retreats, his sword up in case of further attacks. As he backs away though, he bumps into the other praetorian, who's angling his sword, right, left, right, left in an attempt to parry Percival's flurry of blows. Understanding that the position grants them both instant cover, the praetorians keep it up. They spin around together, in perfect tandem, and lunge for their adversaries.

Blade flashing towards him, Arthwr jerks back, leaps away, landing on taller grass, raising dew and a scent like pressed flowers, sweet and cloying. 

The scent drugs Merlin and for a few moments he can only see the lightning-like swirl of the blades as they meet each other, can only make out their silvery flashes against the black backdrop his eyes can't qualify.

When the darkness lifts from his eyes, Merlin sees Arthwr jerk his shoulder, the tip of Elianus' blade nicking the side of his neck. The scratch beads crimson, a corollary of red Arthwr doesn't even bother to wipe away. Instead he twists aside, ducking as Elianus' sword impacts his shield. To get Elianus to step back, Arthur punches him out with it. 

Elianus retreats. Advances again. His sword clatters as it bounces off Arthur's shield. It doesn't indent it though, and Elianus starts on a second bout. He pushes forward and clashes his shield against Arthwr's pauldron, then withdraws to renew his attack. 

Shield clasped tight to his bare shoulder, Arthwr intercepts the blow, kicks Elianus back, then jabs at him with his sword. However he can't press his advantage, for the other two combatants stumble across his path, only to dance away once Arthwr's clearly lost his momentum. 

Once the way's clear again, Elianus thrusts his sword at Arthwr. Arthwr kicks it aside with his. Elianus slashes back, his blade vibrating as it cuts through the air. It slides off Arthwr's shield. 

The crowd of spectators cheers and Merlin's left wondering why since Elianus hasn't pulled a winning move and Arthwr's still very much on his feet. But his sight clocks onto Percival and the second praetorian and he understands. Percival has just downed his adversary. He points his sword at his throat, shares a look with the defeated man, then inverts his sword and helps the praetorian up. The praetorian accepts the gesture and lets himself be hauled up to his feet.

Meanwhile Elianus and Arthwr are still going at it, parrying, hacking, charging. Their swords shine grey in the light of the torches, their hilts a dull gold, the points describing arcs of blinding whiteness as they come down. Elianus's gladius in particular glows as it swirls this way and that.

But Arthwr doesn't seem discouraged, or tired. He moves with as much quickness as before, though he's as cautious of his opponent as when he started. He performs no sudden moves, no hurried attacks that leave him open.

Because of that, he's got the crowd eating out of his hands. The spectators 'ooh' every time he gets in danger, every time he compromises his position.

Merlin too is on the edge of his seat, though of course, this isn't mere entertainment to him. Quite the contrary. Ice courses through his veins every time Elianus' sword whistles too close to Arthwr's body. Every time Arthwr breathes too hard, Merlin's insides churn with trepidation. Live blades and Arthwr are a mix he by no means approves of.

The more the fight goes on, the more the emperor's guests get keyed up, cursing, placing bets, discussing the merits of the two antagonists. 

Elianus and Arthwr are covered in sweat by now, blinking it off their eyes, their breath coming quicker and more belabouredly. Even so, they stick to the terms of the challenge, they don't give up. Nostrils flared, Arthwr dodges an attack, waltzes off, then comes close again, the flat of his sword ringing off against the plates of Elianus' mail.

Merlin wraps his cloak tighter around himself, touches the point of the blade he's hiding, pricks himself with it, the pain quickening his blood, the air rippling with his breath. It ghosts over the warriors like a phantom arm, a spectre, a benediction Merlin means for Arthwr and Arthwr alone. 

As for Arthwr, he's quick on his feet, poetry in motion, his arms and legs rippling with muscle. He's by no means crippled by fatigue, worn down by effort. Effortlessly his legs impel him forwards, close to his adversary, so that he's dancing on grass, around the flames of the flambeaux illuminating the gardens, his shadow flitting here and there, like the wings of a crow, like the bulk of a sleeping dragon who's just been awakened. 

His pulse fluttering, and though he doesn't know what it means, Merlin murmurs, “Pendraeg.”

With a rapid stabbing movement, Arthwr jams his sword in the space between Elianus' sword and and his hand, severing the strap. Elianus goggles, curses, discards the now useless shield. 

Arthwr draws his sword back, takes his body out of risposte range, giving Elianus a chance to recover, find his feet. 

Elianus does, closes in again. Arthwr bends at the knees and hoists his shield, meeting the attack head on. Elianus' sword strikes again, connecting with Arthwr's gladius. Grunting, Elianus tries a second combination, slashing and stabbing, but Arthwr leaps away, out of danger, his parries coordinated, ryhthmic, serrated. As he watches, Merlin realises that Arthwr's drawing Elianus to him, causing him to lunge, to over-extend himself. 

In fact, right in that moment Elianus thrusts out, stretching his sword arm fully. Arthwr sidesteps, brings his shield down on his forearm. If he'd used his sword instead of the blunt force of his shield, Arthwr would have lopped Elianus' arm off. As it is, Elianus' hand opens nervelessly, and he drops his sword. Eyes wide with concern, he dives under Arthwr's sword-arm, folding his body into a somersault.

His opponent now weapon-less, Arthwr drops his own sword and shield. He doesn't even seem to hear the chorus of applause that accompanies his action, his choice to play fair. Instead, he stalks up to Elianus. 

Elianus throws a punch and Arthwr ducks. Not hit, he closes in again, jabs Elianus in the chin with his elbow. Elianus staggers back, kicks out. He catches Arthwr in the stomach, the reinforced soles of his sandals glancing off ribs that crack noisily. Though Arthwr grunts, he doesn't stop. He takes a step forward and punches Elianus, scoring the underside of his jaw. Elianus shakes his head first, makes a noise, falls back in a heap.

When he's down, the emperor rises; his guests do the same.

“The gladiators win,” he decrees. “Let those who bet on this outcome receive their reward.”

Arthwr offers a hand up to Elianus. A few seconds elapse. The crowd tenses into a loud collective murmur. Then Elianus, smiles, and lets himself be helped up. Working his jaw with his hand, he says, “You're a worthy opponent, gladiator.”

“And you, praetorian,” Arthwr says, clasping Elianus' forearm.

Once Arthwr and Elianus have acknowledged each other's skills, Claudius moves over to them. He slaps his praetorians on the shoulder, nods to Arthwr. The praetorians bow their heads and murmur apologies for having lost and thus dishonoured Caesar. Claudius dismisses the notion, claims the result of the sparring match unimportant. He turns around. “And now let's discuss the other bet,” he says, walking a line from Arthwr to Percival and then returning to Arthwr. He appraises the crowd with his eyes. “Where do you think our valiant gladiators come from?”

“Gaul,” a guest shouts. 

“Germania,” another says.

“Is either land your birth place?” Claudius asks the gladiators.

Percival nods. 

Arthwr looks stoically ahead. “I come from nowhere,” he says.

“I nearly forgot” Claudius says, flapping his hand casually about, the folds of his toga rippling over his arm. “A nameless man can't have a homeland.”

“No.” Arthwr inclines his head. “I'm afraid he can't.”

“I'd be prepared to give you the money from the losing bets,” Claudius says, “if you consented to tell us who's guessed right.” He indicates the crowd. “A chance of being confirmed right always makes a game more entertaining.”

“I'm afraid I can't accept that,” Arthwr says, his chest expanding with a breath. “I won't.”

“Your lanista would oppose that, if he knew,” says Claudius, with a little shrug, and a new light in his eyes. “The money alone...”

Arthwr doesn't say anything, keeps staring levelly ahead.

“Well, keep your secrets then,” Claudius says with some levity. He gestures to a serving boy then, grabs a golden cup overflowing win wine, and says, “To gladiators. May their courage be ours.”

The guests drink to the gladiators' health and so does the Emperor himself. When he's drained his cup, Claudius tells Arthwr and Percival, “You can mingle with our guests before you have to return to the ludus.”

Merlin watches as Arthwr and Percival are crowded. Some men try and challenge them to sparring matches, lifting weights sessions. Women touch them, feel their muscles. A few men do too. Merlin does his best not to look too intently, not to appear too inquisitive, interested, involved. The effort takes a toll on him, however, and worry settles on his shoulder like a cloak, like a boulder he can't shake off. 

“The gladiators will be allowed to linger for a while, enjoy the moment, get a stab at mingling with patricians,” Cornerlius Pulcher tells Merlin, catching his attention by sitting directly in his line of sight. “Then the show will be over and they'll be escorted back to the ludus.”

“It makes sense,” Merlin says, pushing off the couch he's sitting on the edge of. 

Cornelius pulls him back down by his cloak. “Not yet,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “You will want to mingle first.”

Merlin starts to object, but then realises that Pulcher is right. He can't be seen to flee the reception. If he does, he'll out himself. He'll out Pulcher, Sophia, her friend Claudia. Their safety depends on his behaviour. He nods. “Introduce me to your friends.” 

Pulcher herds him towards a thick clump of people. Conversation among them is going strong. It stops briefly when Pulcher introduces him as his wife's physician. At that point Merlin is showered with questions. Matrons describe their symptoms and ask for a cure for their real or imaginary ailments. Old soldiers maintain that suffering must be weathered and that those who do and come on top are the real fighters. They try to get Merlin to support that point of view. The poet in the corner laughs, makes quips, derides the mentality. Merlin only makes a comment or two, pretends to drink from the cup someone gives him, rocks on the balls of his feet. As conversation waxes around him, he watches the moon, checks that it's high up in the sky, that it's time. It is, surely it must be. He seeks Cornelius Pulcher's gaze, finds it, is rewarded with a nod. “I saw a friend,” he says, handing Pulcher his cup. “If you'll excuse me.”

He makes sure to vanish into the crowd, to insinuate himself among clusters of people, his clothes brushing against theirs, their elbows finding his ribs, his legs tangling with theirs. Once he's lost himself in a knot of patricians, he starts extricating himself, pushing to wrestle free. “I'm sorry.” He bypasses a couple. “Excuse me.” He presses forwards, puffing his chest out. “Pardon me.”

He reaches the archway that leads into the palace, passes a handful of inebriated guests, takes a corridor at a lope and turns into another. A flight of stairs conducts him into a wide atrium. It streams out in two opposite directions. Merlin presses the heel of his hand against his forehead and tries to remember the map Sophia showed him. A picture of the palace lay out flashes in his brain like a resurgence of flames during a fire. He takes the left corridor at a jog, descends another set of stairs and finds himself in the palace kitchens.

Cooks are carving meats, slicing bread, preparing odd concoctions they shape into swan and dolphin-like shapes, stirring liquids in pots that steam over with gentle clouds of vapour.

Helpers assist with the dishing of the recipes the cooks prepared. Slaves pick up the dishes and line up to take them upstairs and to the gardens.

They are all so busy that they don't even notice Merlin, let alone question him as to his presence in the kitchens. So as not to rouse suspicions, Merlin acts as though he's got reason to be there. He takes a taste of one of the courses, probes the jelly, tests the roast for its juices. Once he's played his part, he flattens himself against a counter, lets two boys carrying a large tray pass, and then pushes towards the door he sights at the rear. After he's closed it behind him, he finds himself at street level, on the south side of the Palatine hill. 

Overhead the moon shines perfectly round and perfectly eerie, bathing the streets in its pale glow. It's high up and aiming higher. It's late. “Damn,” Merlin says, before steaming downhill. 

He canters down alleys and takes a larger avenue at a run until he's left the forum behind and come to a bridge crossing the Tiber. He races across it, the sound of the water gurgling under it tickling his senses. The moon guides him forward. Thanks to its light, he finds the Tiburtina and runs pell mell along it until he cuts across an arch and finds himself in a square from which depart a tangle of tiny streets that manage to look dark even in the clear moonlit night.

Merlin studies the street ahead. It smells of dog's urine and stagnant water. It's light-less, narrow and littered with objects Merlin can't quite make out. From somewhere close ahead noises of a very varied nature come: husky laughter, drunken chants, moans Merlin hopes are due to pleasure and not agony. He tenses, makes sure he still has the dagger Pulcher gave him, then advances. 

Insula buildings seven storeys high crowd together and loom above him. Oil lamps glow in windows that open one close to the other and scatter an orange glow across a slice of the alley. Wagon ruts run along the length of the street and act as an open sewer, emanating a pungent smell Merlin tries not to think about as he races on.

Taking short cut after sort cut, he enters the bowels of the city, navigating the pitch dark labyrinthine byways of Rome. The streets narrow further, the guttering orange light coming from the open windows occasionally flooding the area with light that bounces off grime spattered walls. Most of them are also defaced with lewd graffiti and even more graphic messages. At last the street widens and he finds himself in a place he knows, midway between the Palatine hill and the district that houses the gladiator school.

As a rustling sound echoes in the silence of the night, Merlin turns sharply, reaching instinctively for the dagger hidden beneath his cloak. The rustling stops; a voice calls out to him, “Oi, Merlin, is that you?”

Merlin shakes his head, a thin smile on his lips. “Yes, yes, it's me, Gwaine!” 

Crossing the street to enter the mouth of an alley, he jogs over to Gwaine. When he's close enough, Gwaine grabs him and drags him into the shadows. “You were lounging there in plain sight!” he says, slapping the back of his neck.

“And you just shouted my name!” Merlin points out, because when it comes to stealth faux pases, Gwaine's is rather glaring.

“Well, I had to attract your attention.”

“You could have got that of Marcellus' guards!” Merlin hisses.

“Nah, they make an unholy tramp,” Gwaine tells him, his eyes sparking with humour even in the shadows of the alleyway. “I would know them anywhere.”

“All right, all right, whatever,” Merlin says, knowing that he'll never win at butting heads with Gwaine. “Speaking of, where are the ones who escorted you to Sophia's friend?”

“At her place, I reckon,” Gwaine says, far too lightly for Merlin's taste. “Beside being a beauty, Claudia is such a resourceful woman. Pretending shw wanted to play a board-game before enjoying, well, me, she invited Marcellus' men to sit down for a quick game. Then she took out the dice, and handed out drinks. They were laced with your potion.”

Merlin draws a long breath. “That should keep them sleeping till dawn.”

“Let's hope it does,” Gwaine says, slapping his back. “Or they'll run back to Marcellus and raise the alarm, in which case we're done for.”

“I did heal you, didn't I?” Merlin says, drawing himself up a little bit, for he does know his herbs. “My potions do work.”

“They'd better,” Gwaine says, peeking out of the alley when he hears the rhythmic tramp of sandals. It heralds the arrival of Marcellus' men as much as trumpets would signal the start of a battle. “Or facing those others there? Won't be so easy.”

Merlin takes his dagger out. “When do I?” he asks, peering at the street too. It's still empty and he can't gauge how far Arthwr, Percival and their armed escort are. “You know...”

“Don't worry,” Gwaine says, as a whistle, something resembling a bird's call, resounds across the street. “I'll give you the signal.”

“That wasn't an owl, was it?” Merlin asks.

Gwaine rolls his eyes. “Of course, it wasn't--”

Five men bearing lances, gladi at their belt, spear down the street. Arthwr and Percival follow, unarmed. Behind them come more men bearing the same weapon accoutrement as the first five. They march down the street cutting across the alley Merlin and Gwaine are ensconced in. 

Marcellus' men don't break stride; but advance in unison, in the way of legionaries. Their footfall marks a pace that becomes the same as Merlin's heart beat. Thump, thump, thump. Rhythmic, a perfect tattoo. Merlin gets so wrapped up in it, his senses dilute. It comes to the point he can pick up even the smallest noise, the rippling of the puddles Marcellus' guards trample across, the rustling of their sheaths on their tunics, the tipping sound the flat ends of their lances make when they touch the ground.

The second signal nearly deafens him. 

Gwaine says, “Go!”

Merlin and Gwaine spring from their hiding place at the same time Sophia's men pounce upon Marcellus'. 

Swift to react, Marcellus' men point their lances at the attackers, crouching. Each of Sophia's men engages one of Marcellus', barring two, who turn on Arthwr and Percival. 

The guard hacks at Arthwr with his sword. Arthwr jumps back, ducks left and right. The sword keeps arcing towards him and he keeps leaping away. When the guard lunges, Arthwr moves to the side and chops at his wrist with the side of his hand. Hand cramping, the guard loses his gladius. Arthwr picks it up, the blade he's taken possession of cuts through the guard's arm, severing tendons and exposing bone. 

Percival too has partially disarmed the guard who went for him. But he's still repelling the jabs of his lance with the sword he deprived him of.

By the time, Gwaine and Merlin reach the fray, one man is down – Arthwr's first opponent – and the others are engaged in one-on-one fights. Gwaine engages the guard pestering Arthwr and Arthwr whirls around to face another guard.

Merlin himself challenges one of Marcellus' men, grabbing him by the sleeve of his tunic and stopping him from turning on Arthwr. He turns on Merlin instead, swishing his sword from side to side. With a backward leap that nearly causes him to topple backwards, Merlin avoids being cleaved in two. The move has also put some distance between himself and the man coming at him.

A little terrified, Merlin backs off. But he can't run – and leave Arthwr in danger -- and he can't really advance, not with the guard lunging. So Merlin twists sideways, and ducks forwards, under the guard's thrust. Without knowing exactly how, he's on the other side, the guard stumbling forward in the opposite direction. Still in one piece, Merlin rolls and kicks the back of the other man's knee, hoping he'll send the guard sprawling. The man doesn't fall, though he does falter.

Merlin's still in trouble. A second swordsman makes for him just as the first guard recovers his balance and pivots. They're both aiming at him. Steel flashes over Merlin's head and a blade whistles close to his ear. The sound comes from behind. Which means that the weapons are both arcing towards him from different directions. Merlin can do nothing but blindly thrust his dagger forward and dive. 

Heart pounding, blood racing in his veins at such a pace Merlin thinks his vessels will burst, Merlin looks around, verifies what's happened, where he's at. The man he thrust his dagger at is doubled over in pain, a hand splayed wide over his middle, licks of crimson between his fingers. Between Merlin and the second guard there's more space than there was before, but that doesn't mean Merlin's out of danger.

In fact, the second guard lets out a growl and swipes his sword at him. Merlin makes it to his feet, not knowing exactly what to do. He has no time to contemplate his position however, or even to fully despair, for the blade's zinging close to him. Praying he's strong enough for it to work, Merlin holds his dagger with both hands and intercepts the thrust. He feels the strength of the blow down to his wrists. They shake and hurt but he's effectively parried the attack. Knowing he can't weather another one, Merlin disengages, stumbles back. 

Unfortunately, his enemy pursues him. 

“Take this!” Arthwr shouts, throwing him a spare gladius. “And parry, Merlin, parry.”

Diving to the left, Merlin throws himself in the general direction of the sword. He falls, lands hard onto his knees and rolls onto his side, the sword a few scant inches away from the reach of his fingers. 

With the roar of his attacker in his ears, Merlin strains for the sword, stretches his arm as far as it will go, crawls. His fingers find the cold length of the hilt. Close around it. When he has the sword, Merlin rolls around and pushes to his feet. His muscles nearly tear, but he's standing and holding his gladius up in time to parry and put in a follow up slice that passes under the guard's sword.

For some reason Merlin's still alive. He smiles. That's good. He's in once piece! That means he can keep going at this – hopefully – until Arthwr's free. Free to run from Rome, to vie for freedom. Being able to contribute to that in whichever small way is such a relief it makes him want to fight on.

With that thought on his mind, Merlin lunges, renews the attack himself. Considering that Merlin's no swordsman, it's crazy. It makes no sense though in a way it does. If this guard's facing Merlin, he won't engage Arthwr, who, a swift glance tells him, is being pressed on all sides.

Centred by the need to help, Merlin meets the next blow with the thin of his blade. It rings out dully. He stumbles back. His heel catches on the cobblestones and he totters backwards. By some strange stroke of luck, he gets himself out of the way of another incoming thrust, but stumbles again. The guard's sword doesn't slice him open though and only clangs hard against the stones of the carriageway.

The next swing comes raining down. Merlin tears his body to the side, muscles nearly shredding in the bargain. If he survives this, he swears to himself, he'll train and try to get fitter. He cannot really elaborate on that thought, for the guard's sword sparks off as it hits the edge of the pavement an inch away from his flesh.

Giving it another stab, the guard swings his sword back and rains another blow at Merlin. It falls short of gravely injuring him but it grazes him, opening a cut on his arm. Blood trickles slowly but painlessly down it, till it hits his wrist. Though there's no flare of pain, the sight of his blood is still enough to shock Merlin into heightened alertness, to flare his nostrils and lock his muscles.

Another swing heads for him. To prevent it from crashing into his upper arm, Merlin spins. He parries with his sword, and lifts his dagger, jabbing it blindly at the guard. The guard meets the sword's blow and sends Merlin's sword flying. At the same time he catches Merlin by the wrist, yanks him forward and hammers a back-fist into him. Merlin doubles over and coughs a bitter cough that rasps up the side of his lungs. Blood bubbles around his lips, but he doesn't let go of the dagger. Not the dagger, because it's the last weapon he's got left. 

Merlin's blinking tears of pain from his eyes, when the guard kicks him under his ribs, then sweeps his legs out from under him. Merlin finds himself on the ground, weaponless, one shoulder wedged against the carriage rut, his arm pressed against the side of the pavement, his breath driven out of him by the impact.

Gladius gripped in both palms and held high over his head, the guard prepares to kill Merlin. As Merlin sees the blade descend, his brain blanks of thought. His guts tighten, knit together, and he pushes his palm out in self defence. His vision blurs. The night around him becomes an unfocused blot of darkness cut through by flashes of silver, like wisps of starlight. The guard attacking him becomes only a shade, a contour the colour of melted iron. His sword is threaded through with sparks, like a flame taking on timber, giving rise to an inferno. The sky itself repeats the pattern, dotted over as it is by diamonds that flash intermittently. 

Even his own body takes fire, gets limned by a pale patina the hue of the moon, a patina he can see wind around his arm. He thinks, _no I can't die now, I won't_. As his focus goes to that thought, that moment of denial, the guard groans, slackens his mouth in surprise or protest. Colour returns, the world flashes bright, and Merlin sees the guard hurtle backwards, wrapped in the folds of a cloak that unfurls in the wind. For the longest time, the guard's body seems to follow a trajectory that spins him away from Merlin, destined to never land.

Time seems to him to slow down around Merlin. Only his blood continues to thump loudly in his ears. 

As he takes in the timeless nature of the moment, Merlin can see the others fight, get a sense of what happened while he wasn't paying attention to anything other than his continued survival. Four of Marcellus' guards are down, if he includes his. The others are still trading blows with Sophia's men, two of whom have also been wounded. Arthwr is fighting off a man armed with a lance, ducking, feinting, parrying. Percival is holding another one in a choke-hold. Gwaine has somehow found himself an axe. The others are battling each other in groups of twos and threes. None of them seems to have noticed what Merlin's done. None of them appears to have caught a whiff of the change in the rhythm of the universe.

At last, the guard Merlin's repelled impacts the ground, a gust of wind rises, and time changes gears. It quickens again, accelerates too fast, then gets back to normal.

Though his ribs ache, Merlin pushes himself to his feet. On the ground he finds a broken lance. Cradling his body, he picks it up, and walks to the fallen guard. He points the tip of the lance to his throat, but his hands tremble and his legs threaten to give. He finds, at the most inopportune of moments, that he's hesitating. He ought to kill his rival. But he can't. At the tip of his fingers he can sense the man's life rushing through him, he can picture images out of it, moments that make no sense to him, but that are a testimony to this person's existence: a field planted with corn, shining gold in the sun; a sword, long and thin, beaded with blood along the fuller; legions on the march, an army barracks covered in snow.

Merlin blinks. The guard tries to reach the sword he dropped.

For Arthwr, Merlin thinks, he must do this for Arthwr.

He raises his gladius. But the moment he looks up, he sees a blade coming down, spearing the man in the chest. Mouth agape, Merlin looks past the blade and to the person who dealt the blow. Sophia stands there, wrapped in a cloak, her hair loose but for some pins holding back those strands that would otherwise most closely frame her face. She winks at him. “I thought you'd never do it.”

“I-- um...”

“Say thank you,” says Sophia. “I just saved your life.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, lowering his sword arm. “Thank you.”

“You're very welcome,” Sophia says, “now let's join the fray."

But the fighting has cooled off and Merlin and Sophia need do nothing more than disarm a guard stealthily going for Gwaine. By the time that threat has been seen to, the fight has dwindled to almost nothing. The only ones still actively locked in combat are Percival and Arthwr. Percival is keeping a guard at bay, and Arthwr is holding off another. 

When Merlin zeroes in on him and him alone, Arthwr is in the middle of swiping at his opponent's abdomen. The blow isn't a fatal one though and his opponent pursues him, locking them in a dance of swords and lance.

When Arthwr's adversary jabs his lance at his neck, Arthwr barely ducks out of the way in time.

Merlin wants to shout at him to watch out, but he has no breath for it, and he doesn't want to distract Arthwr. So he watches as Arthwr blocks a series of blows aimed at his chest. With perfect timing, Arthwr hits off strike after strike, keeping the blade away from his body. Using the pavement's edge to add momentum to his lunge, Arthur strikes at his opponent thrice, before feinting past him, slicing his blade across the back of the man's knee.

He's the last of Marcellus men to be left standing. When he hits the ground, hamstring partially severed, the fight is over. 

Arthwr, Percival and Gwaine have their freedom. 

A surge of relief sweeping over him, Merlin drops his weapon and smiles, smiles like a lunatic. He cries too, though he quickly dabs at his tears with his sleeve. They've made it. They're all alive and they've made it. At the same moment as the realisation sinks into him, Arthwr turns to him. Though he's covered in sweat and there's blood spattered on his neck, he smiles wide and a bit wild. Merlin's own grin broadens.

Gladius in hand, Arthwr walks to him, “We made it,” he says, echoing Merlin's thoughts.

“We did,” Merlin agrees, holding his gaze, more than partway drunk on it.

Arthwr's face clouds over. “You're wounded,” he says, frowning as he holds Merlin's jaw in his palm. Rather abruptly he deprives Merlin of the warm touch of his hand. He rips off a piece of his tunic and wraps it around Merlin's arm, adding, “You clearly don't know how to fight.”

“I beg to differ,” Merlin says, miffed that Arthwr stopped touching him the way he had been before he started tending to his wound. “My man is dead.”

“Pfft,” Arthwr says, as he tightens the bandage he has made. “You clearly must be taught from scratch.”

“Yes, because I fared so ill.”

“You're wounded,” Arthwr says, pinching the skin above the graze, causing Merlin to howl. “See!”

“That's unfair,” Merlin says, massaging his upper arm from the edge of his shoulder down to the wall of fabric Arthwr's used as makeshift gauze. “It's bound to hurt if you go and...”

Sophia clears her throat. “As loath as I am to interrupt you two love-birds, I find that I must. There's no time.”

Arthwr stiffens and Merlin does too, absorbing his mood. “You're right. We must leave. When Marcellus finds out we're not back at the ludus, he'll send his men to investigate. Capture us.”

“Precisely,” Sophia says, as Percival and Gwaine gather round her. “You must flee.”

Arthwr nods. “You're right. But I'll take a moment to thank you first,” he says, tiredly shuffling over to her and taking her hand. He kisses the knuckles. “Without you, my lady, we wouldn't have prevailed.”

Sophia's lips twitch, soften. “I accept your thanks, bold gladiator. But before we part I must ask you for a minute of your time.” She relinquishes Arthwr's hand and stalks off, cloak and stola billowing after her in a sea of green. When she realises she's not being followed, she says, “Come with me.”

While her men stay behind, guarding Marcellus' fallen men, Percival, Gwaine, Arthur and Merlin trail after Sophia. She leads them into a dark alleyway. A cart is parked there. The back is covered with a rough section of canvas that bulges over in places. This she pulls off to reveal three bundles. She passes the first to Arthwr. “These contain provisions, a dagger, a change of clothes as well as some money for the voyage. It's not much. But it may see you part of the way home, wherever that is.”

“Thank you,” Arthwr says, grabbing his pack. “I don't know how to...”

“Thank me?” Sophia guesses. Tapping her lips she says, “A kiss will do.”

As Gwaine wolf-whistles, Arthwr bends down, fits her lips to hers. She cups his neck and tugs him towards her, fingers carding through his hair, causing him to lean more heavily forward, opening his mouth to hers. It's only after the sounds they're making have become fleshy, after the kiss has deepened to the softness of tongues, that she lets go. “Well, I would have preferred a little more ardour on your part, but I can see how your heart's elsewhere,” she says, cocking her head and smiling smugly catlike at Merlin.

Though he ought not to have liked her, Merlin can't help but feel fondness for her, so he smiles back, nods to her, and bows his head.

She inclines her head too, then bethinks herself, and starts distributing the other bundles.

“Do I get no kiss?” Gwaine asks, when he's given his.

“I'm never one to say no to a gladiator,” Sophia says, standing on tiptoe to taste Gwaine's lips quite thoroughly. Not one to act shyly, Gwaine lets his hand rove down her back and to her bottom. 

“Hey,” Percival says, “that's enough, my friend. There's no time for that.”

“True,” Sophia says, backing away from Gwaine, tasting her lips with her tongue, rearranging her stola as she does. She turns round, levers the last bundle off the cart and gives it to Percival. “And this one is for you, gentle Montanus.”

“Thank you,” Percival says, palming Sophia's shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Well, now that that's seen to,” Sophia says as Percival steps back and away from the cart. “I'll have to gather my men and rush home, make sure no one can connect my husband and me to what took place here.”

They all make it back to the street, where Sophia starts ordering her men around. When she's done collecting them, she turns around and says, “Goodbye my friends, I do hope you'll get to enjoy your freedom.” Parting shot delivered, she lifts her hood and marches her men away, leading them with such assurance Merlin's sure they're quaking in their boots.

As he sees the last of her, he realises that despite her oddly aggressive ways, she's made a little dent in his heart.

“That's a lady after my own heart,” Gwaine says, slapping a hand against his chest. “I'm almost tempted to stay in Rome so I can woo her away from her husband.”

“You can't,” Arthwr says. “For one because you can't stay in Rome without ending up dead. And for another because she really loves her husband.”

“Well, I didn't say I would,” Gwaine says, “only that it'd be nice if I could.”

“So where are you going?” Percival asks, changing the conversation to address those practicalities Gwaine's ignoring. “I mean we can't travel together, can we? We would stand out far too much.”

“North,” says Arthwr. “I'm going home.”

“We're...” He exchanges a nod with Gwaine, who tips his head in assent, “are going south. We'll find a boat... Sail for Cirenaica.”

“See the sights,” Gwaine adds. “Meet the ladies.”

“And then when the outcry has died down,” Percival continues, “we'll set off for home.”

Gwaine, Arthwr and Percival move together. They slap each other's backs, shake each other's hands. “Without you,” Arthur says, then wets his lips, before trying again. “Without you I wouldn't have got my freedom back. I... thank you.”

“Hey,” Gwaine says, hugging Arthwr, though Arthwr stays stiff, “without Merlin's plan and your friend Sophia's–” He waggles his eyebrows. “--organisational skills, we wouldn't have made it out of Marcellus' compound.”

“That's true,” Arthur says, his lips curving at the corner. “I owe you nothing.” He lightly punches Gwaine's shoulder. “Get out of my sight now, you dawdler.”

After they've hugged Merlin goodbye and slapped his back multiple times for emphasis, Gwaine and Percival take off at a jog that takes them southwards.

“So,” Arthwr says, turning to Merlin, lifting the bundle he put down to say goodbye to his friends. “It's time.”

“Arthwr,” Merlin says, love crushing against the underside of his ribs, heart in ribbons as though it's been blown to pieces. “I don't want to say goodbye.”

Arthur's face clouds over. His mouth thins and his jaw squares. “You mean you're not coming?”

“You mean,” Merlin says, taking a step towards Arthwr, “that I can come?”

Arthwr turns his head, looks long distance into the dark road. “Of course I can't ask you to drop everything, your life here, for me... I understand. You're the Emperor's physician. You're someone here.” His throat works as though the tendons in it were being stretched. “You have something here. You can't be expected to follow me on my dangerous journey home. I won't ask you that. It's--”

Merlin nods thoughtfully but interrupts Arthwr all the same, mostly because he's an idiot if he thinks Merlin can stay behind. “I'm not really Roman, Arthwr,” Merlin says, widening his arms out to encompass, the street, the city. “This place has never been my home.”

Arthur's head whips back, his lips part, while his eyes grow bigger. “You mean to say you wouldn't be loath to leave?”

Merlin's eyes burn, but he casts his lips into a smile. “I mean to say that I want to come with you, wherever that road takes us.” He casts his head to the side, smiles a little though he isn't sure it's as light a smile as he wants it to be. “If you'll have me, of course.”

“Don't be an idiot, Merlin,” Arthwr says, extending a hand, “of course I'll have you.”

Merlin walks over to Arthwr, lets his arm settle weightily across his shoulders. “So I'm an idiot then?”

They start walking northwards. “Naturally. And of course, you'll be an incredible burden, and I'll have to teach you how to fight properly. How to stay alive on the road. There are bound to be brigands and dangers and...”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“I'll also have to teach you how to hunt and how to make camp.”

“I wasn't raised in a city, Arthwr.”

“How to get your bearings in forests and across open country...”

“Arthwr,” Merlin says, cutting off Arthwr's list of survival skills Merlin should come to grips with. “Shouldn't we, you know, hurry?”

“Of, course,” Arthwr says, lengthening his stride. “Of course.”

It's probably the fourth hour in the morning by the time they pass the Porta Praenestina and at last leave Rome behind.


	2. Chapter 2

The pinks and blues of dawn light change to the pearly white of early morning and then to the richer hues midday. As the countryside stretches before and around them, pastures turn the colour of gold, and hills shine green and ochre, spreading out northwards as far as the eye can see. Cows and horses, mostly nags, graze grass as tall as Merlin's calves from within the confines of well tended paddocks, while sparrows fly southwards over undulating land. 

Everr since they left Rome behind, Merlin and Arthwr have seen nothing but farmland, so they've become used to the sight.

So far they've stayed away from the Via Cassia, which branches out north and touches Florentia. Wishing to keep away from prying eyes, they've kept the well tavelled road a mile or so to the east, its path, still a reference point to them, discernible from among the dips and rises of the rolling fields. Other than to the Via Cassia, they give a wide berth to post houses and inns too, ranging the open country, where only animals roam. It's not just pursuit from either Marcellus' or the emperor's men they fear, but witnesses to their pilgrimage as well. 

By the time the sun starts sliding past its zenith, they've put at least twelve miles between Rome and themselves. Wisps of golden-hued light strike the path ahead in slanted stripes that play tricks with shadows and mess with Merlin's vision. Merlin starts tripping quite a lot. The soles of his feet hurt and cramp, every muscle in his body contracts painfully against the other, and his stomach rumbles rather noisily. “I've got to stop,” Merlin says. “At least for a while.”

Arthwr scans their surroundings. “It's too open here. There's a thicket over there.”

On the way over they steal a few apples from a tall tree belonging to an extensive farm that coasts the road. When they get into somewhat wilder territory, they pick berries too. 

Because they're adding to their food supplies on the way over, they slow down. It takes them an hour to get to thicket, but at last they do reach the cover of trees. Discarding their weapons, they sit with their backs to the trunk of the same tree.

At the base of the holm oak the grass is soft and springy, spotted with the yellow and blue of small wild flowers. Ferns grow in a cluster on the opposite side of the clearing and clouds scuttle past, providing shadow. Merlin eats his fruit ration from off a cloth he's spread at his feet in between Arthwr and himself. He munches quietly, thoughts whirring in his brain. “How far will we have to go before Marcellus' men give up on us?” he asks, mouth still partially full.

“I don't know,” says Arthwr, biting into one of the apples they picked, “I want to say Etruria, but something tells me Marcellus is stubborn enough to have his men tail me all the way to the Alps.”

“Then we'll hide all the time,” Merlin says, picking one more blueberry. 

Arthwr turns the apple in his hand as though he's looking for the next spot to bite. “That wasn't what I wanted to offer you.”

Merlin puts his own berries down; he arches and eyebrow and says, “I think we've talked about this before.”

“Yes,” Arthwr says, “but I keep feeling I'm doing you a disservice.”

“You'd have done me more of a disservice if you'd left me in Rome nursing a broken heart!” Merlin says, before he has managed to realise what it is that he's blurted out. When it does become clear, his face starts to burn. “I wanted this. I'm happy to have made this choice.” He analyses what Arthwr's said from another perspective. “I can make my own choices too, in case you think it's only up to you.”

“You're right,” Arthwr says, arranging apples as though their alignment matters to him, but actually looking up at Merlin from under his brows. “I'm sorry I made it sound like you can't.”

Merlin smiles and though he's tired he thinks his smile comes out fine. “That's all right.”

“You know Romans better,” Arthwr says, as he keeps toying with his food. “Do you think...”

“Yes?”

“That Claudius has already put two and two together?

Merlin can't say he hasn't thought about it, especially before his feet started aching like his soles have been stripped off and all manner of foresight left him, but he's not sure what answer to give. “I think he won't be the first person Marcellus will be running to.”

“No, he'll be recruiting more men,” Arthwr says, brow knitting, “mercenaries, thugs from the streets of Rome.”

“But Claudius' spies will soon learn the truth too,” Merlin says, thinking of the visit Plautius paid Caesar, of the network of informers he relies on. “And the moment they realise you're gone is the moment they'll be sure of your identity.”

“So we have a few days advantage at the most,” Arthwr says, coming to the same conclusion Merlin has drawn. 

“Yes,” Merlin says. The idea gives him hives, but he can't ignore it. To do so would be madness. “I mean the guards that were sent with Gwaine will have woken up hours ago.”

“And run straight to Marcellus.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, a grimace twisting his face. “Not to mention the ones we didn't kill last night. Sophia's men can't have kept them prisoner. They'll have run back home too.”

“Will Sophia be in danger, do you think?” Arthur asks. “Of being exposed as our rescuer?”

“Well, Sophia's men weren't wearing any badge associating them to her and she only appeared when Marcellus' guards were all knocked out and out for the count,” Merlin says. “As for the Lady Claudia, she'll probably say Marcellus' guards got drunk at hers, and that's why Gwaine managed to escape. They're both safe, Arthwr.”

“But we're not,” Arthwr says, nipping his lip.

“I don't think we are,” Merlin says, his pulse echoing in his temples. “Not for a while yet.”

“I suppose that means we'll have to make sure we don't waste the advantage having a head start gave us.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, none too happy about it. “It does mean that.”

“I was thinking,” Arthwr says, carefully picking a large berry so round it looks hand-painted, “we should cover another ten miles today.”

Merlin makes a pained noise.

“We can stay here a while longer yet,” Arthwr says with a smile.

They finish eating. So they have something to look forward to in the evening, they don't touch the provisions Sophia gave them. Merlin's stomach isn't full, but he can't say he's as hungry as he was before they took a break either. He'd rather have food for later anyway. When they're done, they dust themselves off and stand. Merlin is picking up the dagger he discarded so as to be able to comfortably eat, when Arthwr grabs him by the wrist and pulls him to him. Merlin drops the dagger. It falls flat on the ground, dislpacing a heap of soft terrain and moss. Arthwr takes Merlin's face in his palm, studies it, locking eyes with him, and then presses his lips to Merlin's. He slants his mouth across Merlin's, opens Merlin's with a gasp, a touch. His tongue slips softly inside, slides under Merlin's. It's just a moment, fleeting, but it's enough to sap Merlin's bones. 

“I just needed to do that,” Arthwr says, as if Merlin would have asked him to explain why he acted the way he did.

Before Merlin can answer, Arthwr has started back towards the path. With his heart pushing up his throat, Merlin trots after him. There's a lot he wants to say to Arthwr. Many phrases occur to him that would explain what he feels. But each time he tries to express his feelings and turn them into actual words, his mouth dries and he finds himself unable to vocalise any sound other than a croak. He keeps silent. It's much safer than bleeding out sappy words. Merlin's far too good at sap.

Even though their rhythm slows compared to the one they kept up during the morning, they march all afternoon. Merlin's used to walking – he's certainly never owned either horse or litter –, but he's not used to treks such as this. By the time the sun loses its glow, they have covered nearly twenty miles, which is more or less the distance legionaries travel in a day when on the march. Merlin, however, has never trained as a legionary.

It shows too. His feet are bleeding at the heel in warm trickles that he wants to scratch at. The muscles in his calves are cramping too but that goes away if he stomps around. Intermittent pains are way better than constant aches. What's really tormenting him is the small of his back. It pulses aches in slow throbs.

“We're stopping soon,” says Arthwr, without turning around to look at Merlin, who's lagging behind. “We just need to find some kind of shelter.”

“Not on my account, no,” Merlin says, bending over to undo his sandals. The straps are cutting into his flesh and he could do without that kind of chafing. “We're not doing that.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, stopping short, “I'm tired too.”

“Weren't you a fit warrior who never complains?” Merlin says, trying on a smile for size.

Arthwr snorts. “Of course, I am.”

“So were you just being thoughtful when you offered?” Merlin asks, as he keeps forging ahead. “That's very sweet of you.”

Arthwr goes cross eyed at that. “I wouldn't call myself that.”

“So what would you call yourself?”

Arthwr sighs deeply. “Never mind.”

“Oh, now I'm interested,” Merlin says, skipping ahead to walk side by side with Arthwr, slinging his sandals, now tied together, over his shoulder.

“I thought you were tired?” Arthwr asks, tipping up an eyebrow.

“I'm trying to take my mind off it.”

Arthwr huffs a laugh. 

They continue on until it gets too dark to see. They get closer to the road, not so much so that they can be spied from it, but near enough that they can make out where they're going. A little bit further down the path, they find a farm. “Should we ask if they can lodge us?” Merlin asks.

“We'd be leaving witnesses in our wake pointing directly to us.”

Merlin nods. He knew the answer even before he asked. He'd just briefly dreamt of a bed and a fire. “Yes, you're right.” He hangs his head.

“What about that place?” Arthwr says, lifting his chin in its direction. 

“It looks like a barn.”

“Roman farmers don't sleep with their cattle, do they?”

“Well, no,” Merlin says, “usually not.”

“Then we will.”

The barn is oblong and smells of manure. The interior is illuminated by torches affixed high up to the wall; supplementary light comes from the cracks in the sidings. The stalls and pens house cows and sheep. While the sheep don't mind them, a few of the cows low when Merlin and Arthwr steal inside. They both freeze when that happens, looking fretfully towards the barn door, but no one surprises them on the premises, so they step further inside. Once they feel safe enough, they check out the rest of the interior. The hog area is to the left and thankfully empty. A plough lies abandoned at the entrance to the stalls, and a few rakes are propped against the southern wall, their shadows skeletal. Dry bales of hay lie on the ground at the further end of the building, where the ladder to the hay loft is. They direct their steps to it.

Ladder creaking, they climb up. The loft itself is half filled with loose hay and there's about thirty more bales stashed around the trapdoor.

Limbs heavy, feet throbbing, spine feeling as though it's splintering, Merlin drops his sandals and his dagger, and goes for the first pile of hay he sees. Arthwr stops him with a hand around his wrist. “Wait,” he says, as he lays down his cloak. “It'll be more comfortable like this.”

Once Arthwr's rid himself of his own gladius and footwear, they lie down on Arthwr's cloak. They're on their side, facing each other. Albeit wearily, they smile. The animals downstairs are quiet. They emanate a comforting earthy smell. They hay loft is sheltered and apparently secure. It's all good. 

Moonlight flooding in from the aperture above them slants across half of Arthur's face. It caresses his ear, his cheek, his nose. Merlin wants to follow in its path, to run his thumb down all those lines and angles, but his arms are too stupidly heavy, his fingers feel too numb, and he can't quite. He scuttles close to Arthwr though, nose to nose, so he can taste his breath, so that by placing his hand on his heart, he can sense its beat.

He munches on his lips, and lets his eyes go to half mast, revelling in Arthwr's steady pulse and the warmth he's enveloped in.

“You know,” Arthwr says in a quiet, low voice, his breath tickling Merlin in soft gusts, “I once thought that when I took... when I had someone, they'd be honoured with riches. Now the Kings of the Albioneses aren't as powerful or as wealthy as the emperor of Rome, but back then I thought it wouldn't be in a stable that I--”

Merlin fits his lips against Arthwr's, shuts him up. “I never wanted anything, I've never asked for anything, and I won't be asking for anything other than you.” He cradles Arthwr's nape and leans in again, brushing their mouths together before gently sliding his tongue inside Arthwr's. 

Arthwr sighs. They trade kisses like that for a while, soft and tender, lazy. Arthwr chases his fingers down Merlin's face, digs his thumbs in his cheeks, caresses his neck and sides and hips. Merlin wants to melt, to touch back, to hold onto Arthwr. He feels like wax under Arthwr's fingers, like Arthwr's the flame melting his substance, like he'll dissolve under his touch. He's fundamentally sure that if he lets himself experience Arthwr to the full, he'll nothing but what Arthwr makes of him. He's not afraid of that. Not as much as he should be.

Even though they've teased each other into a sensual reverie, their kisses fade to slow rubs of lips on lips. Merlin's heartbeat slows down, his eyes close and his body feels much heavier, much less under his control. As Arthwr nuzzles the corners of his mouth, Merlin yawns. Blinking, he says, “I'm sorry, I--”

“You're tired.”

There's no hiding that. By now Merlin's at pains to keep his eyes open. His lids are coming down no matter what, and the heavy laxness of his limbs weighs his down, but he does want to stay awake and kiss Arthwr till he has branded the taste of him onto his lips. “I want to be with you.”

“We have time,” Arthwr says, as he licks Merlin's lips into his mouth. “We have our whole lives. Sleep now.”

“Arthwr, we'll have to leave early tomorrow.”

Arthwr's lashes flicker downwards; his nose grazes Merlin's cheek. “I'm shot too, Merlin. I need to rest awhile.”

“Arthwr...”

“I truly, truly do.”

“All right,” Merlin says, kissing Arthwr's lips. “All right. A few hours perhaps.”

Merlin lets his lids slide down over eyes that feel itchy with the grit of the day. Before he knows it images flicker past their veil in rapid succession, images he can't control and that his conciousness plunges him into with a vividness that would register keenly if a part of his self hadn't dissolved into nothingness.

He wakes when light plays on his face, warms his cheeks. He opens his eyes a chink and takes in Arthwr's sleepy but smiling face. “Good morning,” Arthwr says, and leans in close, burrows his mouth against Merlin's neck. He smells like hay and the road, like warmth. It's not a bad smell at all. In fact, Merlin wants more, more of that scent and more of his skin. With sure hands, he unhooks the cloak's that covered them like a blanket, casts it aside. He shifts closer, inhales the scents of Arthwr, slips a hand under Arthwr's tunic, and finds a clavicle he traces with the pads of his fingers.

Arthwr trembles under Merlin's touch, his skin flushing. “Hey,” Merlin says, not expecting that response. 

Arthwr shrugs against him, his shoulders rising in a huff, the breath gusting out of him and against Merlin's neck. 

Merlin's hand skitters down Arthwr's flank and moves past his hips, finding the hem of Arthwr's tunic and pulling it upwards. Arthwr exhales hard, shifts, braces himself on his elbow. Merlin slips his clothing off him. 

Without his tunic, Arthwr shivers. 

“Cold?” Merlin asks.

“No,” Arthwr says. “It's not the cold; it's you.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, easing into a wide smile.

“You drive the breath out of me,” Arthwr says, nuzzling his shoulder, his chin. “Make me lose control.”

Their mouths rub together in a kiss that opens slowly, their tongues grazing. Arthwr palms Merlin's cheeks with his hand, smooths his hand backwards down Merlin's nape, slides it down the length of his back, pulling him close. Harsh, rasping breaths punctuate their kisses, deep kisses Arthwr shares with him, soft kisses Arthwr makes even more tender by virtue of the gentleness that comes with them, nibbling ones Arthwr scatters over his mouth, across his chin, under his jaw. He pulls the lower rim of Merlin's upper lip into his own mouth. He uses his teeth and suckles on it until Merlin's breath stutters. 

Warmth radiates through Merlin, dissolving his heart, his bones, his centre. Fingertips skate down his back, legs tangle with his. His and Arthwr's kiss sweetens, becomes a moment of earth-shattering devotion, soft sweet pleasure. “I want you,” Merlin manages to say, despite the knot in his throat. “No more delays.”

“Don't want to wait anymore either,” Arthwr says, clawing at Merlin's collar, taking his mouth in a kiss that's all gasps and parted lips.

Hands raking down his back, Merlin pulls down Arthwr's small clothes, drags them down past his knees, then leaves them there so he can palm the back of Arthwr's legs, his haunches. His splayed hand slips from his hamstrings to his arse.

With a loud sigh that whistles through his teeth, Arthwr flips them, climbs on top of him, pushes his cock against Merlin's hand while at the same time he tries to rid Merlin of his tunic. 

To pull off both actions at once proves unfeasible, so in response Merlin grabs his face, slippery with sweat now, and says, “Wait, wait.”

At Merlin's words, Arthur draws back, his cock sticking out. It's tipped with purple, strongly veined. It makes Merlin want, lashes him with desire, makes him arch so he can take his tunic off and be naked. So naked he can feel Arthwr's skin on his.

But when Merlin sheds that item of clothing, Arthwr frowns.

Merlin hesitates, makes a shield of his discarded tunic. “I'm not...”

Arthwr reaches out and for a moment Merlin believes he's going to touch him, but instead he runs his fingers around the torc Merlin's got coiled around his neck. “I know what this is.”

Merlin lowers his gaze. “It's nothing, Arthwr.”

“My people's traditions aren't that different from yours,” Arthwr says, his jaw stern. “This is a symbol of leadership. You're a king.”

Merlin's eyes search the hay; he laughs. He thinks his laugh echoes hollowly throughout the barn. “I'm no king, Arthwr.”

Arthwr tugs on the torc. “You must be.”

Merlin looks up. “My people, the Veneli, have no kings. We are subject to Rome. Have been since Caesar's days and I'm not likely to have been born back then, am I?”

Arthwr makes slits of his eyes. “Then what is the meaning of this?”

“It's nothing but a reminder of the place I come from, Arthwr,” Merlin says, his eyes no longer seeing his surroundings, but wild expanses of land jutting out to sea, where crags loom and seagulls fly. “The person I could've been if I hadn't gone to Rome.”

“I told you my secret, Arthwr says, his eyes misty, wide and preternaturally blue in the early morning light. “But you choose to shroud yourself in mystery.” 

Merlin sighs, massages his eyelids with his knuckles. “I have no secret though. I'm not hiding anything. Your name might not be Nemo but mine is really Merlin, and I'm no king. I was born in Gaul. Because of politics I had to move to Rome. Gaius made me his apprentice. I became a physician. There's no secret.” Merlin's aware he's equivocating. His stomach's twisting in tight knots about it, but he doesn't think he should expand on the truth now of all times. His healing powers aren't something that can be easily explained. Merlin wants to tell Arthwr about them. He trusts him with his life, so why not with them? But now's not the time to impart that knowledge. He wants to sit Arthwr down when he tells him. He wants them not to be rushing northwards when he does. Most of all he wants to be able to answer all Arthwr's questions and he realises he won't be up to that if he's panicking about Romans on their heels. As for the flinging a guard away incident, the one from the night before, Merlin hasn't got the hang of it either, can't make head or tails of what happened, so he'd better make sure he didn't hallucinate that event before he opens up about it. “I'm no king, I swear."

“Then why were you hiding that torc?” Arthwr asks, his face still pale with the shock of discovery, or perhaps, of disappointment. “Why, Merlin?”

“I wasn't hiding it!” Merlin says, his voice thinning as it rises. “I brought it along for luck, to see you fight. It was a superstitious gesture, nothing more. I even forgot I had it on.”

Arthwr's shoulders lose some of their tension. “For luck?”

“I was filled with dread for you,” Merlin tries to explain, his words too quick and too feverish and too honest for him to say without exposing all that he is. “Because my heart's shattering for you with every pulse, even more so when you're in danger!”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, cradling his cheek with his palm. 

“I'm loyal to you,” Merlin says, kissing Arthwr's wrist, “to none other than you. If that's not enough...”

“It's enough,” Arthwr says, clutching his shoulder and leaning forward to kiss Merlin. In their descent his lips graze Merlin's nose and catch on Merlin's. “It's more than enough.” Arthwr palms Merlin's heart. “I just want to know you.”

“You know me,” Merlin says, knowing he's never been quite so honest with anyone before. “This is me.”

Arthwr nibbles on his lips, drawing them into his mouth. Merlin feels a tug deep inside him, a well of want that's as bottomless as his powers, and pulls Arthwr to him. Because Arthwr's already leaning forward, he topples over. Though the sudden shifting of Arthwr's weight momentarily drives the breath out of Merlin, Merlin is fine with the move. It couldn't be better. Merlin always wants to be blanketed by Arthwr, especially when he's warm with sleep and his limbs wrap themselves around Merlin's till they don't know where one ends and the other begins.

They re-arrange themselves, Merlin shifting, Arthwr repositioning himself in such a way that Merlin can breathe, smiling down at him as he covers him with his body. The shock of his warmth sends Merlin's heart rabbiting in his chest. It thumps so hard it very nearly hurts. It's like it's pumping too much blood. And Merlin feels as light headed as though he was losing gallons of it, except the wound Arthwr put in his heart is one that Merlin doesn't want to heal. 

Before long they're running their hands along the length of each other's bodies, streamlining them along the span of hips and backs, down the length of forearms, along the back of thighs that seize with the rippling of muscle. They stretch out in the hay. They flip each other, roll around, fodder sticking to their bodies, and then end back in the same position as before. 

All the while they kiss each other on the mouth and on the neck, on the chest and nipples. They grunt softly and stifle the noises against each other's mouths, in the space between them. Their bodies stutter into thrusts that come natural to them. 

“Wait,” Arthwr says, the words a whisper murmured against his mouth, “wait. You've still got--” He paws at Merlin's small clothes, tugs them down in fits and starts and with hands that tremble, and seem completely ineffective in achieving what they set out to. “Wait.”

“Here,” Merlin says, helping push the garment down, levering himself off the ground so Arthwr can pull them all the way off. “Here.”

Arthwr discards Merlin's small clothes but doesn't climb on top of him again. Instead, Arthwr hunkers back, eyes a notch wider, tilted at a cat-like angle, his nostrils quivering imperceptibly. “Arthwr?” Merlin asks.

Arthwr swipes his thumb across the bow of Merlin's mouth. He doesn't say anything but Merlin shivers because he knows what Arthwr wants. “Yes,” he says, bones heavy with it, guts tightening, skin burning. His fingertips dance across the planes of Arthwr's abdomen causing a fluttering and tightening of muscles. “There's no other answer.”

Arthwr wraps a hand around himself and rolls his foreskin back. Merlin scoots closer to him, puts one hand on his hip, splays the other on his arse. He puts kisses to his hip, to his belly, breathes Arthwr in where the smell of him is thick. "Beautiful," he says, because he needs Arthwr to know how he makes Merlin feel, because that's got to make it out there. He doesn't think he's said it quite enough anyway, doesn't believe he's made clear how Arthwr's got under his skin, how he's made him want in a way he's not sure he ever has before. “You're just...”

At Merlin's words Arthwr moans; his chest and face flush with the praise. His eyes round out to flash this surprised look at him and he mutters something, which sound like a dismissal, a shooting down of Merlin's words of approval, and which Merlin doesn't fully get because he's quite drunk on Arthwr himself. At this point they're both beyond words. 

With a groan Arthwr starts pulling at himself, groaning, breathing harshly, his hips shuddering into the motion, each pass of his hand leaving the head of his prick beaded across with pre-come. As he teases the gland into shedding droplets of it, his scent becomes muskier. His fingers move slowly up and down and squeeze with each stroke. Drops of fluid Merlin wants to rake up with the tip of his tongue drench him. Merlin doesn't yet enact those visuals, but he edges forward, touches his nose to Arthwr's groin, breathes in and out, till his ribcage shakes with it. 

"Merlin, I,” Arthwr says, “I want to...” 

Arthwr doesn't say what he wants but Merlin can guess. In answer to that unuttered plea, Merlin turns his head just a little and rains kisses around the base of Arthwr cock, draws back, looks at Arthwr – red about the neck and upper torso, his face brimming with colour, his forehead soaked with sweat,– and something breaks inside him. It's not just the sex either, but it's certainly a corollary of this moment of unparalleled intimacy, a revelation that comes on the heels of seeing Arthwr like this, no stoicism, no veil of reserve coming over him so he can be the perfect prince, the perfect warrior. This man here is the one Merlin wants to know. He reveres the king, respects the fighter in Arthwr, but it's Arthwr the man he needs, would do anything for. This man he caught glimpses of at the Ludus and when they joked around. That Arthwr is the person Merlin cherishes. This man who can break, and be proud, and redden with a kind word. It's him Merlin wants to love and protect and give himself to.

Heart rabbiting so fast in his throat it threatens to choke him, Merlin moistens his lips, purses them around the tip of Arthwr's cock. He rubs his tongue around the head of it, presses it flat against the slit. He opens up a little wider, slips more of Arthwr into his mouth and begins to suck, moving his lips further down, bobbing his head.

Arthwr sobs.

Merlin wants to give him more. It's a longing that burns him at his core. Arthwr seems to get it. He cups Merlin's face, his thumb swiping across the arc of Merlin's cheekbone, then moves his hand to the base of his cock, makes a ring of thumb and index, and takes to stroking himself off into Merlin's mouth. His breath comes in quick gasps then, the muscles at the back of his thigh, which Merlin is kneading, cord ever so tight.

Merlin wants to push Arthwr into orgasm, but he needs to breathe a moment, for all of this – the physical act as well as the play on his emotions – has knocked the breath from his lungs. Chest rising fast, he draws back, leaving Arthwr wet with his spit. 

Though he's clearly far gone, Arthwr doesn't make a grab for Merlin, but he does thread his fingers through his hair, combing it back again and again, even when all strands are slicked back. Merlin blinks and Arthwr smiles.

Something unknots Merlin's insides, softens him into a gushing mass of feeling. He can almost see it radiating from him in waves that take on colour, red and gold and bright crimson. The air shimmers to a pulse, and the pulse is that of his racing heart, that of Brigid's heart, that of earth's own core. Brigid's heart beats on an altar, an altar of stone, an altar raised high. Birds circle round it. They form a ring, an ever moving circle, a crown, an augury Merlin can't read. The birds shape shift. They become creatures of the woods, small limbed, made of light and moon-dust. They light fires around the altars, fires that burn bright, fires that leap around the crests of hilltops. Brigid speaks. “So it shall be,” she says, and Merlin ha no idea what that means. 

Though he knows what he feels. 

Something inside him beholds him to Arthwr, connects him to him, always will, a well born of his own feelings and of a power that makes the two of them click together.

Merlin hankers for Arthwr, knows that this, this moment of theirs, will give him an instant of perfect closeness.

That thought a suggestion that warms him and excites him, Merlin goes back to work. He pokes his tongue at the head of Arthwr's cock and traces a slow line up the underside of it. He rains little kisses at the top and nibbles the sides ever so gently, with a phantom touch of teeth, enough to conjure a shiver. 

Arthur inhales loudly. He doesn't make much more noise than that, but his breathing quickens. Merlin can tell because he sucks his belly in in with every inhale. His thigh muscles go taut and a frown line appears on his brow.

In response Merlin lets up a little, rounds his lips around the head of Arthwr's cock and sucks only lightly.

As though the gentleness of Merlin's touch is rather too much for him, Arthur shakes fully. His hand curls into a fist. But when it relaxes, it gently closes around his nape, pushing Merlin back down. 

With Merlin lying down, Arthwr has to crawl forwards on his knees so as to be able to feed him his cock. Palms deep in the hay, he braces his hands above Merlin's head, his knees at his shoulders. 

In this position Merlin can't do much more than take it. But it's what he wants right now. He wants to go with the flow, and make Arthwr come apart. He wants Arthwr to experience all the pleasure he possibly can and to cradle him through it. He wants to give Arthwr this because he can, and because Arthwr moves him to impossible heights of insane longing.

Slowly, Arthwr's cock slides deep into Merlin's mouth. With each stutter of his hips, Arthwr grunts. His hips rock forward in little spasms that make his muscles jerk and lock and cause his cock to nudge the back of Merlin's throat, weeping bitter droplets of come that soon turn to a flood. 

Through it Arthwr thrusts, the muscles at his flanks and back flexing under Merlin's palm, until he doesn't anymore and he makes a small noise and stills. 

With the taste of Arthwr flooding his mouth, Merlin coughs, gags a little. Arthwr backs off him, his arms trembling either side of Merlin as he braces himself over him, his pupils blown, his face shiny with sweat, his hair sticking at the sides of his forehead and behind his ears. It's made a shade darker by perspiration.

At the sight Merlin wants to kiss him. He longs for that so powerfully it alters his world view, stuns him, makes him weep affection. Lust is mixed in there too, powerful and raw, beating his blood up in a turmoil that makes him light-headed. Merlin wants Arthwr to stem the low burning ache in his cock. He's more aware of it now than he was when he was thinking only of Arthwr. Though he knows it's just the heightened perception that comes with near climax that makes it so, he feels as though he'll shatter if he doesn't come.

As if he knows, Arthwr lowers himself on top of him, searches his eyes, and culls a deep kiss from Merlin's mouth. As he kisses him, Arthwr ranges his hand down Merlin’s chest, across his ribs, over his belly, raising shivers, ripples, tremors that make Merlin clench his jaw.

When Arthwr stops kissing him, he wraps his palm around Merlin, watches him for cues as he holds him, strokes him, thumbs the head of his cock, dipping his finger in the wetness seeping out of Merlin. 

The touch, coming after Merlin's ignored himself for so long, is almost too much. It's intense and electrifying and it makes Merlin want to brace himself. He goes taut, knees raised, feet pushing flat off the ground.

“Easy,” Arthwr says, as he brushes his lips across Merlin's forehead, covers it with kisses. “Easy, Merlin. Let it take you gently over.”

Merlin nods, though he's not sure he can. He's not positive he can take it and not fly apart down to the very seams of his soul, not when Arthwr skirts his thumb along the length of the vein that lines his cock and not when he cups his balls, weighs them in the warmth of his palm. Merlin bucks and thrashes his head, and says things in a whimpered tone that don't make sense at all but that have the cadence of his mother tongue.

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, dragging his palm down Merlin and sweeping it back up again, while Merlin clutches frantically at his back. “Merlin, come on, come for me.”

Biting off a cry, Merlin feels heat lap at his insides and orgasm landslide out of him, leaving him out of it, the world blurring around him. When he focuses again, Arthwr takes his upper lips between his for a soft kiss. Then, clearly unable to brace himself any longer, he lands in Merlin's lap. “That was a good way to start the day,” Arthwr says, flashing him a dazzling smile. 

“Yes, but now I just want to curl up and sleep some more,” Merlin says, daydreaming about doing just that.

Arthwr nuzzles his face. “We can't,” he says. “We should get going before the owner of this barn comes round and checks on his animals.”

As if Arthwr's words have conjured a presence, the door to the barn opens with a moan of hinges and a whoosh of air. “Come my lovelies,” a man says, his voice sounding too close for comfort, “time for breakfast.”

Merlin's eyes widen and he says, “Holy--”

But Arthwr clamps a hand over his mouth. “Shh.”

The noises coming from the barn sound as clear as drums even in the hayloft: the tramp of boots, the whining of a rusty wheel barrows the low mooing of the cows and the bleating of the sheep. Metal scrapes metal. It rattles against wood. Wood creaks. Hoofs stomp across it.

“Perhaps he'll feed the animals and go away,” Arthwr murmurs.

“Or perhaps he won't,” Merlin says, his words a quiet whisper.

Arthwr catches his gaze, rolls his eyes, smiles. “Pessimist.” He kisses the each syllable off of Merlin's mouth. 

Downstairs cows bellow and clip-clop their hooves on the beaten earth of the barn. Merlin listens to crunching rhythm of the animals' chewing and makes out little snorts and heavy trampling sounds. Other restless noises Merlin can't source pierce the air. Hay rustles, a man whistles, and planks sough under the weight of footsteps. He almost starts to believe that the farmer will leave once all the animals are fed, when the rungs of the ladder leading into the loft moan.

Before he's thought about what to do in case they're surprised, a man climbs onto the gangway, pitchfork in hand. “What the hell!” he growls loudly enough to rouse some sympathetic noises from the animals in the stalls. “What are you doing on my property, you thieving dogs!”

Arthwr says, “We're not thieves!”

The farmer snorts, points his pitchfork at them.

Merlin pinches Arthwr's side, rolls him off him, stands. Though he's naked and cold because it's early morning and he's just lost his human blanket, Merlin tries not to shrink in on himself, but stands in such a way as to present an open front. “Look,” he says, palm held out, “we're just weary travellers. We stopped here for the night.”

The farmer's pitchfork doesn't waver. “I don't believe you. You wanted to steal my cows.”

Arthwr sniffs. “As if.”

Merlin glares at him. “If we wanted to, we would already have, wouldn't we? Yet, look at the cows. They're all in there, aren't they?”

The farmer inclines his head in grudging assent, though his chin is wrinkled from all the aggravated pouting he's doing.

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, pointing at the farmer, “he's insulting us. He's implying we're cattle thieves." He makes a sign that indicates him and Merlin. "That's... that's so low... It's...” He turns so he can face Merlin. Do you know in what esteem we hold that kind of criminal among my people?”

Merlin hisses, “Nemo!” then turns to the farmer. “We never meant to steal your cattle, promise.” He places a hand on his heart. “We were just very weary yesterday night. Admittedly we stole in here without your permission, but we only did that so we could crack a wink of sleep.”

“Sleep,” the farmer says, scoffing as he takes stock of Merlin and Arthwr's nudity with a terse once over. “Hardly.”

“Well, that's hardly your business, is it?” Arthwr says, standing to his full height, shoulders drawn all the way back, hands on his hips, body on display in the soft light that creeps in from the aperture closest to him. “As for invading your property, we do apologise.”

The farmer doesn't look mollified. “I should call the vigiles. There's a cohort in the next village over.”

“No!” Merlin says, palm still out. “We'll pay. We'll pay you for rooming us. We'll give you as much as we would an innkeeper. Come on, that's not a bad bargain.”

“Why didn't you go to an inn if you had the money?” the farmer asks, lowering his pitchfork a notch. “It must be fake money you have.”

“We got lost,” Merlin says, thinking quickly of an explanation that wouldn't make them appear even more worthy of suspicion. “We wandered awhile but then it got dark and we gave up on finding a village.”

“But you found my barn all right.”

“It's out of the way,” Merlin compromises, looks for Arthwr, coaxes him to say something with a look, but Arthwr doesn't; he searches the ground with his eyes rather, lips stuck out in a severe moue. “It was just a coincidence we chanced upon it.”

“And who can vouch for you not being criminals, eh?” the farmer says, frowning at the weapons they left in the hay. “You could well be. I ought to report you.”

Merlin's heartbeat kicks out in protest. “Yes, well you could but then you'd be laughed off. We're only wayfarers.” 

“Those weapons say different,” the farmer says.

“Those are for self defence,” Merlin says, happy he's not lying about this at least. “Open roads are dangerous.”

“They are,” the farmer says, “but a gladius?”

“A gladius is not that hard to come by,” Merlin says, “not so the money we're promising you.”

The farmer strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Well, you don't look like criminals, I'll give you that.”

“That's because we're not,” Merlin says, kneeling, opening the bundle Sophia gave them and counting out two silver denarii. “Here,” he says, sticking his hand out to hand the money over. “That's a reasonable price for putting us up.”

The coins fall into the farmer's palm. When he has them, he props his pitchfork against the wall and bites into the side of the coins. “Seems real.”

“It is,” Merlin reassures him, pasting a friendly smile onto his face. “I swear.”

“All right,” the farmer says, dropping the coins in a pouch he has at his belt. “I'll accept this payment, but that doesn't mean you're allowed to stay at my farm. I want you to be gone by the time I take my cows out to pasture.”

Merlin grins. “We'll be out of your hair in a thrice!”

The farmer grunts, picks his pitchfork back up and without presenting them with his back starts down on the ladder. “You'd better be gone fast.” He gives the two of them a second once over. “Before my wife wakes.” He disappears below.

In silence, Merlin and Arthwr put their clothes back on. They ought to wash and break their fast but they both know that'll have to wait for that. Instead they straighten each other out, put their sandals back on, arm themselves and try to forget about how hungry and sticky they are. Passing each other their provisions bundle so they can more easily negotiate the ladder, they make it down to the barn, and after having acknowledged the farmer, they steal out, the fresh morning air filling their lungs.

It's only when they've put the barn behind by a mile that Arthwr speaks again. “I'm sorry I didn't help you in there, but--” He kicks at a pebble. “I don't like lying.”

“And I did a lot of it,” Merlin says grimacing at his ability to do so at a moment's notice. After all he's spun a tale that woefully misrepresents him all his life long. He's spent such a long time hoodwinking people into not seeing parts of him that are integral to his true nature, he must have become quite good at fibbing. “I'm not proud of it either.”

“You got us out of that bind,” Arthwr says, looking at him though he's squinting against the sun. “Without you--”

“Arthwr,” Merlin says, straying sideways to bump shoulders with Arthwr, “we're in this together, right?”

“Right,” Arthwr nods, though he sounds confused. “But that doesn't mean I shouldn't--”

“I did my part,” Merlin repeats, steamrollering over Arthwr. “You'll do yours when the time comes.”

“I--” Arthwr says, opening his palm, closing it. “I want to always help you. Without hesitation.”

“And you will,” Merlin says, bobbing his head to reinforce his words. “All the way to Britain.”

 

****

 

The sun shines through the leaves in a shimmering green haze, giving an impression of eddying, translucent water. Every branch of every tree is outlined by its sparkling rays, which highlight every shade and hue of green in the canopy above. They filter through in shafts of ethereal gauze, morphing the green into lime and teal, caressing the foliage, burnishing the mellow colours of nature into the yellows and golds, coppers and russets that are cropping up amid it, a reminder of the season about to take over. Flies buzz about among the clouds of black. They form little dancing swarms that flit around in clouds. Green chameleons perching on branches stake insects on their tongues. 

Merlin lies on his back, facing the top of the tree. He spreads his arms and legs outwards in the grass, and squints till his vision gets pinpricked by bursts of orange. He wiggles his back against the ground, feeling its suppleness, how it accommodates his limbs, his shoulder blades, the back of his thighs.

He lets his eyes slip closed. He smiles.

Water drips on his face and Merlin blinks his eyes open and sees Arthwr loom over him. He's soaking wet. Moisture flattens his hair to his skull and forehead. Droplets drips from his ears, his chin, the tip of his nose and fingers. Rivulets run down the centre of his stomach and along the length of his shins.

“Bastard,” Merlin says, “I was trying to relax.”

“It seemed to me,” Arthwr says, wearing a grin, as he lies down next to him with his hand supporting his chin, “that you were about to fall asleep.”

“And you couldn't have that,” Merlin says, making sure he's pouting, “could you?”

Arthwr places his hand on Merlin's bare stomach. “We said we would only take some time out to wash.”

Merlin scrunches his nose up. “I know.”

“So I can't let you sleep now.” Arthwr kisses Merlin's belly an inch away from the arc his own fingers fan out. “But I can promise I'll find you some shelter tonight. And you'll be able to sleep then.”

“Are you only guaranteeing sleep?” Merlin asks, eyes crinkled as he tries to look up at Arthwr.

“No,” Arthwr says, kissing Merlin's skin again. “I'm not only promising that.” He slaps Merlin's belly before getting up. “We should get going.”

They slip their tunics on, Arthur's sticking to his body where it's still wet, Merlin's hanging loosely on his frame, pick up their weapons, and start back towards the road. Soon they're as sweaty as they had been before bathing in the stream, though conspicuously less dusty. 

“We should get horses,” Merlin says, as they amble along a track he can't see the end of. “Or we'll never get there.”

“We have money,” Arthwr says, “but it has to last us. Remember we're yet to pay for passage once we reach Populonia. I don't think buying horses is a good idea.”

“I don't think trying to make it on foot is a good idea either,” Merlin says. “Think about it. On foot it'll take us weeks to get there. That puts us firmly around the ides of October. The weather will be getting foul by then, especially at sea. We won't be able to find ships making for Britannia then.”

“There might still be,” Arthwr says, clearly clinging to his plan with an obstinate thrust of his chin.

“There might not be,” Merlin points out. The weather is holding for now but that doesn't mean it will keep doing so. “And if we get there too late we'll have to winter there. I don't know how prudent that is since we're hiding from two different sets of people.”

“You're not wrong.” 

“Whenever am I wrong?” Merlin says, narrowing his eyes.

Arthwr gives him a sideways look that's full of humour. “Some of the time.”

“So I'm generally more 'right' than you then,” Merlin says, and Arthwr bursts out laughing.

The village of Caere lies three days march to the north of Rome on the crown of a rocky turf hill surrounded by a several gullies and two rivers. Its roads are laid out in a grid plan pattern; houses made of stone and brick and tiled red roofs line it. The castrum, a tall quadrangular complex of curtain walls segmented by defensive towers, is aligned with the main roads and guarded by soldiers wearing red cloaks and crested helmets. At its centre stand a couple of institutional buildings and a colonnaded temple constructed in a much simpler style compared to the ones gracing Rome. A crossroads extends from this fortification, the forum visible in the distance at the end of one of the main vias.

“So how do Romans go about acquiring horses?” Arthwr asks, lowering his head as they pass a fortified outpost. 

“The same way a Briton does, I suppose,” Merlin says, eyes on the cobbles so as to divert the locals' attention away from him. “They ask around.”

“We know no one here,” Arthwr points out as they lose themselves amid the stream of people speeding along the decumanus. 

“True,” Merlin says, “we could also traipse back to some farm and steal a nag or two.”

“Idiot,” Arthwr tells him, grabbing him by the neck and shepherding him into a side street not frequented by soldiers. “I was being serious.”

“I think that place might be the answer to our questions,” Merlin says, pointing to a tavern whose entrance opens onto the cardus. “The barkeep will be sure to know everyone.”

“Asking around,” Arthwr says, pinching Merlin's side. “That will do wonders for our anonymity.”

“We'll only stand out if you speak,” Merlin says, nudging up an eyebrow. “Otherwise we're just two travellers seeking to buy horses.”

“Now now what do you mean by that?” 

“Well, for one you sound pretty haughty when you speak so people are bound to remember you,” Merlin says, his upper lip twitching when he takes in the outraged face Arthwr makes at that. “And for another you don't sound like a native.”

“I'll have you know I'm well educated and that my Latin is flawless,” Arthwr says, though he's never displayed any liking for anything Roman before.

“By way of Britannia,” Merlin says, howling when Arthwr nudges his elbow against his ribs. “Ow, that hurts.”

The taverna opens under a portico and onto the street, pillars either side, a lantern hanging from the portico's rafters. Its shutters are up and the prices of the wares offered are scrawled on a tablet affixed to them. 

After a playful scuffle their right themselves and make for their target.

Merlin and Arthur wade into the tiny back room, the only portion of the taverna not visible from the street. A few drifters grace the tables that dot the space leading up to the bar and a few patrons stand by the well of some stairs leading up to the first floor. To a man they have a tankard in hand. Otherwise the place is by no means packed. It's simply just too early for the evening trade. 

Merlin and Arthur walk up to the counter. Merlin leans on it. “Good day.” 

The host is scraping out a series of wooden bowls, but the minute he spots them he drops the tool he's using for the purpose. “Good day to you,” he says, smiling widely. “What can I do for you, kind sirs?

Merlin pastes on a wide grin and says, “Two jugs of Falernian wine.”

The tavern-keeper turns around and picks out two empty jugs from a rack behind him. He pours wine coming from a larger pitcher into each. When they're both almost full, he pushes them over to Merlin and Arthwr.

“Good,” Merlin says, taking a taste. “Excellent.”

“We serve the best wine this side of Rome.”

“No doubt,” Merlin says, taking a bigger swig of the sweet wine, hoping he won't get horribly drunk on so little. “Do you get a lot of trade for this?”

“Not so much from locals as from visitors,” the barkeep says. “Legionaries on the move like this type of wine too.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, palming the jug, “and what do the locals prefer?”

After a few minutes conversation on the subject – during which Merlin learns more than he ever needed to know about the habits of the Caereans–, Merlin is halfway into having made friends with the barkeep. Arthwr keeps looking at him as though he's performed some kind of magic feat while the barkeep natters on and and on about his favourite topic. It's when the latter has exhausted that line of talk and moved on to the worst habits of his patrons that Merlin asks, “I was wondering if any of your customers are selling horses?”

“Horses?” the barkeep says as though the thought of them has never occurred to him before. “I don't know.”

Merlin's shoulders slump. 

“But I do know tomorrow's market day and you can find anything you might ever want at Caere market.”

“Including horses?”

“Most assuredly,” the barkeep says, nodding vigorously. “Traders come for all over to open a stall there. I usually go to see if there's some new wine cargo I can get my hands on.”

Merlin shares a look with Arthwr. Arthwr takes a pull of his wine, scratches the side of his face with his thumbnail and lightly nods his head. 

“Tomorrow you said?” Merlin asks.

“Yes,” says the barkeep, running a cloth down the length of the counter. “They'll open up the stalls at first light.”

Merlin puts two coins on the counter. “In that case we'd like to put up at your establishment for the night.”

“I'm afraid I'm full,” says the barkeep, eyeing the money dolefully, “but my brother has another establishment a little further down the road. I'm sure he'll have a room for you.”

The barkeep gives them instructions on how to reach his brother's inn, so after they've paid for their wine, Merlin and Arthwr leave the taberna. They've almost made it out of the side-street, when Arthwr pulls him backwards and Merlin fetches up against his chest. “What the hell, Arthwr!”

“Those two men,” Arthwr says, nocking his chin in their direction, “I saw them before. They're Marcellus' men.”

Merlin zeroes in on the two. Their faces aren't familiar but their black cloaks are. They are the same as the ones Marcellus' guards generally wear on duty. This most assuredly makes them one of their number. “So what do we do?” Merlin murmurs as he burrows in the shadows of the alley. “Do we stay or do we leave Caere?”

“If we leave now we're back were we started, with no mounts, and we'll have wasted a day.”

Merlin understands that wasting a day is bad news, especially when they're trying to make Populonia before the bad weather sets in. Walking all the way to the harbour town is not something he's particularly looking forward to either. “If it's only the two of them...” 

“I doubt it,” Arthwr says, his hand stealing under the folds of his cloak. “If those two are here, there's more.”

“So what do we do?” Merlin asks, no decent plans as to what to do occurring to him. Whichever choice they make they're in danger of making a mistake.

“We have two options,” Arthwr says, the gladius he's unsheathed glinting in the shadows. “We can let those two pass and steal away from Caere when they're not looking. We won't get what we came here for, but we'll have our freedom. Or we can hide at the inn, spend the night here, and get horses first thing tomorrow. After which we'd have to ride hard for Populonia.”

Merlin can see the downsides to both options. But he was the one pressing for horses before and it's not as if their need for them has diminished. If they're to stay in Caere, they'll have to lie very low, but it can be done. “I vote for staying and hiding from them.”

“We'll do that then,” Arthwr says, sheathing his gladius when Marcellus' guards disappear down the decumanus.

“You don't really have to trust my judgement,” Merlin says, shaking his head.

“But I do,” Arthwr says, nudging him out of their hiding place so they can direct their steps to the inn. 

The inn is bigger than the taberna was but it's as much part of a wine shop as the other establishment. Upon enquiry and after having paid a sesterce each for the privilege, Merlin and Arthwr are shown into their room. When they pronounce themselves satisfied with it, the host leaves them to it, informing them prior to departing that dinner is at eight and that any extra – towels, sheets, blankets – will cost them. 

Once the host is gone, they have a look around. Their room overlooks a side street by way of a window. There's nothing much in the way of furniture aside from twin beds, a stool, a chair that appears somewhat rickety and a little chest wedged in the corner opposite the door. On top of the chest two vases in the Etruscan style stand out as a poor attempt at decoration.

With Marcellus' men at large, they can't go out and wander the streets of Caere, so they keep to their room. The floor might be dirty, the ceiling stained with damp and the mattress distinctly thin, but they have a roof over their heads and the wind is not whipping at their bodies, which is more than they can say for the shelter they've so far been able to find. Overall, Merlin tells himself, it's not so bad. Now if he could quash all those fears of being captured...

They rest for part of the morning and afternoon. Towards the seventh hour they have a drink in the wine shop. They share dinner with a couple of wayfarers who've come for market day. They only briefly interact with them, making passing comments that mean little and aren't meant to be remembered. Overall they don't speak much at all, keep their heads down, and when the musician on pay strikes up a tune they pretend to be entirely engrossed in his strumming.

When night lies thick over Caere, they make it back to their room. They stretch down each on their beds and look at the ceiling, their cloaks and one blanket staving off the chill of the night.

“Go ahead, you can sleep,” Arthwr says, placing his gladius at the foot of the bed. “I'll keep watch.” 

“Nah,” Merlin says, rolling onto his side so he can look at Arthwr. “I slept in the afternoon, didn't I? Besides I'd rather stay up and talk.”

The bed frame groans when Arthur positions himself on it, back to the wall. “You might regret it once we're back on the road.”

“I would never regret it,” Merlin says, squirrelling under his blanket, “spending time with you.”

Arthwr smiles. “That's very touching, Merlin.” He pauses, picks up his gladius again, sets it across his knees. “But I want you to save your strength.”

Merlin feels as though he's vibrating with energy, his body thrumming with it, but he doesn't say that. He makes a big production of scrunching his face up childishly, and says, “But that's boring.”

“You'll thank me come the morrow,” Arthur says, and starts polishing his sword. He uses an oil that smells like resin and a rag that the innkeeper lent out to him. “Believe me.”

With the smell of the oil deep in his nostrils, Merlin closes his eyes. “For a minute or two,” he says, before realising he's already on the way to dozing off.

When he opens his eyes again, he realises it's much later. The candle that stood tall on the chest has lost nearly half its bulk, wax pooling at its base in jagged formations. Merlin cranes his neck. Arthwr is sitting pretty much where he was, eyes closed, his arms around himself, sandals on. His sword still precariously perched across his knees.

Merlin slips off his own bed and crosses over to Arthwr's. He tugs at the blanket that lies rumpled at the foot of the bed and covers him with it. The moment Merlin's fingers brush his chest, Arthwr's eyes snap open. “I wasn't sleeping,” he says.

Merlin smiles, brushes his lips against Arthwr's. “I know. I just wanted you to get comfortable.”

He makes to retreat to his own bed, but Arthwr grabs him by the hand and pulls him down. “Kiss me,” he says and it's petulant and halfway to being an order, but his eyes brim over with softness – with affection – and Merlin can't really help the tug in his stomach or the sudden expansion of his heart.

Acting on his feelings, Merlin fits his lips to Arthwr's, presses them to his, rubs them into his. When Arthwr tilts his head again to renegotiate the kiss, their noses bump and Merlin chuckles softly. Warmth moves through him, pools deep inside him, licking at his bones. Spine softened, Merlin leans his forehead against Arthwr's and starts sliding his hands into his hair, kissing Arthwr shallowly. “You,” he says, not entirely sure what he's going to say until he does, “You don't know what you do to me.”

“Not much good up till now,” Arthwr tells him, very quietly and very softly.

“What do you mean?” 

Arthur bur his head against Merlin's shoulder, “I haven't been any good to you, have I?”

Merlin tips Arthwr's face up, cradles it in his hands. “How do you even reckon?”

“I've placed you in danger and--”

“I chose to take that risk,” Merlin says, digging the pads of his fingers into Arthwr's face, pressing down on skin and muscle.

“Yes, but I can't help wondering,” Arthwr says, locking eyes with him, “if you miss Rome.” He places a finger on Merlin's mouth. “Yes, I know you don't call that place home, but surely you must miss your friends, miss having a role that's not merely tagging after me.”

Merlin sighs, kisses Arthwr's face under his eyes, rests his chin on his shoulder. “I miss Gaius,” he says, aware of how contemplative his voice sounds. “And yes, I loved helping people. I like to think I'll be able to do that again once we're settled. But the truth is I just want to be with you.”

“I know that now, I think,” Arthwr says with a tiny smile that spreads the moment Merlin feeds into it.

“So what are you worrying about?”

Arthwr pulls him down on the bed, on his flank, and puts his hand on Merlin's hip. “Your happiness, I think.”

Merlin lets a silly smile get away from him. “I'm happy.”

Arthwr nuzzles his chin, rubs his flank above the tunic. “Tell me about Gaius,” he says. “Tell him about what the people you miss.”

“He was my mentor,” Merlin says, fondness seeping into his tone. “When we met...” He can still perfectly recall the occasion, the municipal hall building in a town that had nothing in common with the village Merlin had grown up in, the tall columns that made him feel small and lost, the uniforms of the Roman soldiers, billowing red like blood around him, their sneers. He remembers Gaius most of all, a grey haired man with kindly eyes, the only kindly eyes shining on the Veneli boy in all of the room. 'Hello, little man', Gaius had said.' “When we met he was nice to me. I was... let's say I was not in the happiest of moods, and he took me to his office in the castrum and showed me potions, told me what they did. When I recognised some of the stuff that was in them...” Merlin smiles to himself. He gave Gaius the names of the medicinal herbs he thought had gone into making the man's potions, but used his own language, so at first Gaius thought Merlin was making them up. When he realised Merlin could describe the plants and their effects on the human body, he'd lifted an eyebrow and said, 'Indeed, that is so. Who taught you that, boy?' Merlin had answered proudly, said his people were great healers. He had told Gaius the Veneli had a tradition for that, a tradition the Romans feared because they didn't like Gauls having secrets. Gaius has sucked his teeth and asked about the nature of such mysteries. Merlin had been adamant about not revealing them. “I can't tell you that. I'm sworn not to on pain of death. It's a secret.” Gaius had goggled first, then burst out laughing. 'You're a funny boy. A mystery one, really.'

Merlin shakes himself from his reverie of the past and tells Arthwr, “Well, let's say that Gaius was impressed with me and took me under his wing.”

“He was kind,” Arthwr says, massaging Merlin's hop in circles. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, nosing Arthwr's face, “he was kind and taught me almost everything I know.”

“He means a lot to you,” Arthwr says, combing his hair backwards, fingers digging into his scalp and exercising some soothing pressure.

“Yes, he does,” Merlin says, because it's true and it's something he's never acknowledged to Gaius directly. “He was like a father to me.”

“I'm sorry you had to leave him behind,” Arthwr says, and though his fingers comb through Merlin's hair with increased gentleness, he doesn't ask Merlin whether he's sure of his latest life choices again.

“If he was a little bit younger I'd have asked him to come with,” Merlin says, gnawing on his lip. “But a journey like ours... He couldn't have faced it.”

“No,” Arthwr agrees, wrapping his arm solidly around Merlin's middle. “No, I don't think he could have.”

“I mean nowadays he was giving most of his patients over to me, and spent a lot of time doing gardening.” Merlin pictures Gaius's garden with its rows of pink flowers stained with light yellow, of mauve buds brushed with pink, wide leaves framing them in a nest of vibrant green. “I couldn't have asked him.”

“Once we get home,” Arthwr says, “you could send him a message.”

“I'm sure I'll have a lot of explaining to do,” Merlin says, as he closes his eyes for a moment. “And Gaius will be quite cross...” He munches on his lips, lets his face rest against the pillow. “Quite...”

He trails off, thoughts and words no longer occurring to him. It's late and darkness weighs on his eyelids, encroaches on his thought processes. 

He wakes to a dull sound. 

Arthwr, who's standing next to the door, turns around and puts a finger to his mouth. “There's someone outside,” he mimes and when the noise sounds again, Arthwr adds, “several someones.”

Merlin dives for his dagger and Arthwr for his gladius. No new noise breaks the quiet of night, but that doesn't necessarily mean they can stop being prudent. Not until they know more.

They flatten themselves either side of the door.

There's a chance the sound they heard was nothing. Merlin tells himself it could easily have been a household pet that made the boards outside creak. Maybe a returning patron... But a look at Arthwr confirms that he too is harbouring some kind of fear in his heart. Crockery breaks outside.

Arthwr grips the hilt of his gladius in both hands, the blade glinting softly in the pre-dawn light, like dew on grass, but much more deadly.

The door bursts open, and comes clean off its hinges. Orange light floods in from the corridor outside then the grey of steel flashes before Merlin's eyes.

One of Marcellus' guards charges inside, bypassing them without noticing their presence, and nearly topples over. Before he can whirl around, Arthwr kicks him in the small of his back, sends him wind-milling, then cracks a vase on his head.

By the time Arthwr's dealt with the first guard, three more burst in. Arthwr engages two. He simultaneously grabs one by the arm so he overbalances and lunges with his gladius at the other.

Merlin would look on, make sure Arthwr's fine, but the guard coming for him is of another mind. He certainly knows how to get Merlin's attention. Merlin parries a sword blow with his dagger. The blades screech together, leaving Merlin's ears ringing. The guard feints and tries to find an opening. With no other thought but safety in his mind, Merlin just stumbles away from the blade. When he finds he's still whole, he steels himself to go on the attack. 

Merlin withdraws his blade and double passes the guard along the front, touching him on his left. The man grunts but throws himself at Merlin all the same. He's too close, too angry, and momentum is carrying him ruthlessly towards Merlin, his sword bared. Merlin knows that for all of his clever ducking and quick thinking, he's no warrior. He doesn't have the skills to face a trained mercenary in a fight. He can't expect help from Arthwr either. He's too busy dealing with his own two adversaries to be able to come to Merlin's aid. If he knew just how at a loss Merlin is, he would try and help, but Merlin prefers him alive and in once piece, which he wouldn't be if he took on Merlin's opponent too. Merlin must rely on his own skills. 

As his guard charges him, Merlin jumps back, closes his eyes and preys the man won't get at him. He actually wishes his opponent were a thousand miles away, and not a threat to Merlin at all. Merlin repeats his silent prayer over and over again.

When Merlin squints and focuses on his attacker, he sees him trip and fall short of Merlin, his gladius burying itself in the gap between floorboards. The gladius' blade still quivering between them, Merlin kicks the guard in the head and the man loses consciousness with a little sigh. 

When Merlin turns round, Arthwr is still fighting. One of the men he's duelling against flails his weapon at him. Arthwr changes his grip on his sword, viciously tugs at his foe's cloak, knocking him off balance, and drags the sword across his middle. The man's armoured leather jerkin spares him a deep wound, but he folds over all the same, spilling blood, paling, swifly going into shock. 

Arthwr has effectively downed this opponent but still needs to face the last one. Arthwr shoulders this man. He ducks under the swings the fellow makes and once he's vaulted past him, stabs at him from behind. The man suffers a hit, but fights on, aiming a blow at Arthwr. Arthwr parries the blow with his gladius, then slashes back, causing the guard to back away. 

Arthur goes for him.

Marcellus' guard accelerates the rhythm of his strikes.

With careful flicks of his wrists, Arthwr turns his adversary's blows aside. He's quick about it, confusing his attacker with the ease with which he takes it all. With another swift flexing motion of his wrist, Arthwr swings his sword upward and blocks a thrust. He turns it aside and sweeps the blade across the guard's torso. He doesn't wound Marcellus' man, but he does cause him to flail his limbs about in a panic. Arthwr then reverts his gladius and hits his opponent square in the temple. Blood gushing from a cut that grazes his hairline, his opponent shakes his head. For a moment it looks as though he will react, his face certainly scrunches up in pain and anger, but then he topples backwards onto Arthwr's bed, most decidedly out of it. 

With the last man down, Arthwr tugs Merlin by the arm. “We've got to go,” he says, pushing him into the depth of the room, grabbing his things as he goes.

“Er, the door's the other way,” Merlin says, pointing feebly in its direction.

“We're not using the door.”

“Not using the door, right,” Merlin says, wondering if Arthwr's gone mad.

“We don't know if these guys had back-up,” Arthwr says, indicating the unconscious men and striding past Merlin, taking Merlin's cloak off the bed and lobbing it at him. 

“Wouldn't they have come up already?” Merlin asks, eyeing the door with suspicion. 

“The simple truth is that we don't know for sure and I'd rather not risk it,” Arthwr says. More briskly he adds, “Now let's get out of here.”

Merlin watches as Arthwr wraps his sword in his cloak and throws it out the window. When he connects the dots, Merlin feels his legs go a little soft. “You want to jump out the window?”

Arthur turns round, a hand already gripping the frame. “Yes, I don't see any other option.”

“Braving the stairs is an option!” Merlin says.

“Merlin, I already explained.”

“Yes, well,” Merlin says, setting his jaw, “still not keen on jumping out of a first floor window.”

“I swear it's not that high up at all.”

“It's still high enough!” Merlin says, unable to bite down on the protest. “I've set enough broken limbs in my life to know jumping out of windows is no good!”

“Come on, Merlin.” Arthwr extends his hand out to him. “I swear, I won't let anything happen to you.”

“It wouldn't be you harming me,” Merlin says, but when he hears the inn's stairs creaking, he joins Arthwr. He bundles his dagger into his cloak like Arthwr did and hurls both out the window. “So...”

“So,” Arthwr says, “ready?”

“I'm never going to be,” Merlin says, taking a deep breath and climbing onto the sill. The street looks to be a fair distance below them, the cobbles raised but worn smooth by frequent passage, but the distance seems... negotiable. Merlin inhales the balmy scents of the night. They filter into his nostrils and make him a little drunk on them. Caught swaying, he tightens his grip on the window frame, and says, “I suppose it's now or never.”

He jumps. The impact rattles his spine, jars his knees, and smarts the soles of his feet. A wave of pain chases at his ankles as he rolls. He acquires new bruises as he goes. When he stops tumbling about in a ball, his world continues tilting at odd angles, until he gulps in air and rubs his eyes. When his vision settles, Merlin sees Arthwr lean out the window and make the jump. He lands at a crouch, grimaces as he rights himself, then walks over to the sprawling Merlin, smiling and looking down at him out of slanted eyes. “Relaxing, Merlin?”

“Idiot,” Merlin says, but accepts Arthwr's hand up all the same.

Once Merlin's up, Arthwr says, "Let's get going."

They gather their weapons and wrap their cloaks around them, and make for the mouth of the alley. They've nearly cleared it, when the cadence of footsteps alerts them to the presence of a heavy-set person. “A passer-by?” Merlin asks, making a face because he knows that the likelihood of that is pretty low. It's too late at night for licit traffic.

“No,” Arthwr says, squaring his jaw. “Look at his cloak.”

“Another one of Marcellus' men,” Merlin breathes out. “What do we do? Fight him?”

“No,” Arthwr says, “we draw him into a trap.”

“How?”

Arthwr smiles. “I happen to remember the man's name.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, as he starts figuring out what Arthwr's plan entails. “Oh.”

“Metellus,” Arthwr calls out, hands cupped around his mouth, “Metellus, come here, quick. Help!”

Metellus stops in his tracks and whirls round, retracing his steps to come investigate. When he's reached the mouth of the alley, Merlin sticks his leg out. Metellus trips. Arthwr helps with the momentum of his descent and kicks him in the back. Once Metellus has hit the ground, Merlin elbows him at the nape while Arthwr smacks his head against the cobbles. With a sigh, Metellus loses consciousness.

The moment they're sure he's passed out, Arthwr and Merlin dart back towards the mouth of the alley. Before starting down it at a trot, they once again check the coast is clear. “All right, let's move,” Arthwr says and Merlin follows him at a run. However, the sight of the building next to the inn stops him in his tracks. “The stables,” he says.

Merlin's words stop Arthwr too. He turns around, thus realising that Merlin hasn't caught up with him, that he isn't, in fact, running. He waves his arms, mimes something, gestures for him to follow.

Merlin gestures back and says, “Wait.” 

Without checking that Arthwr's tailing him, he pushes the stables door open a sliver and sneaks inside. A torch shines from its sconce in the wall, casting tremolous, uneven light on the premises. He's in is a narrow building, all board and batten, cleaner than the inn itself, with bales of hay smelling like grass, a ground floor largely free of muck, and designed to comfortably house as many as fifteen horses. Merlin makes for the first stall. 

It's occupied by a tall roan with a white maze and clear, soft eyes. His saddle trappings bear the same colours as those of Marcellus' household. Merlin slips his dagger from his cloak.

“What the hell are you doing in here, Merlin!” Arthwr says in a hiss that disturbs at least two of the horses. 

“I am,” Merlin says, opening the stall door, “making it impossible for Marcellus' men to follow us.”

“You don't mean to kill the poor beasts, do you?” Arthwr asks in a dismayed tone that makes Merlin's heart glad. 

“Of course not,” Merlin says, caressing the roan's flank. He puts the knife to one of the saddle straps. “My religion taught me to respect all of nature and to only take life when it's necessary. Ours was... an earth cult.”

“So what are you doing?” Arthwr says, though he's got a shrewd smile on that tells Merlin he's probably guessed anyway.

“Cutting the saddle straps,” Merlin says, drawing his dagger's blade across the leather, not so much so as to sever it, but enough to weaken it.

“You're a little bit of an evil genius, aren't you?” Arthwr asks, taking out his own gladius. “Thinking this up.”

Merlin's eyes are on the leather cord he's cutting, but he smiles when he says, “I'm just trying to even the playing field.”

Arthwr finds himself his own saddle to work on while Merlin busies himself with another set of straps. Though they're in a hurry to be gone, they take their time to ensure they get the wished-for effect. One cut that bites too deep into the leather and the saddle will fall off the horse's back, which would advertise their tampering with it. Not enough cutting, and the saddle will keep on holding for an indeterminate amount of time. 

Before long they're done and they slink back into the night. 

They wait for dawn in a temple dedicated to Jove and hide behind the base of a huge statue of the same god. The milky plinth it stands on is square, solid and cool, striated with veins of a darker colour that nearly veers into the blue. The floor is chilly, so Merlin wraps his body in his cloak, arms akimbo under it, and makes himself smaller. 

Arthwr sits with his sword across his knees, his back taut. 

He tries to chase off sleep by trading barbs with Arthwr, but soon finds himself blanking on the thread of their conversation. His head tips forwards time and time again and at last Merlin just gives up and lets darkness envelop him. 

When the world comes back to him, light is bathing the temple in tight arcs that shimmer nearly transparently. Shadows battle against light, as if clinging to the veil of night, but they soon lose their hold on their surroundings. Birds are already singing outside and the temperature has risen, the air rich with the warmth of the sun.

“We should get going,” Arthwr tells him when Merlin moves.

Merlin smacks his lips together. “Yeah,” he says, weariness eating at the corners of his brain so he can barely put two words together. “I guess it's time.”

Market stalls fill all the open spaces in the centre of the town from the forum and nearby thoroughfares to the smaller streets that start off the decumanus. They crowd the buildings that line them, they squeeze between them and spread across the smaller squares. Wooden shacks and tables, some of which come with an awning, cover the area. The most extravagant are thatched with reeds or fronds that protect the merchandise in as gaudy a manner as possible. 

A cascade of colourful wares blankets every available surface. Tables and crates are lined with vast quantities of produce sporting vibrant colours. Red and orange, deep purple and dark green. Fruit and vegetables sit alongside cuts of meat or barrels of salted fish. Live cattle is paraded in pens, the animals listlessly round and round. Gold items dazzle from off from their seats in small caskets, while cloth and tapestries hang from hooks and shake in the light breeze. 

Fabrics of all types are on display, plain ones, fancy ones, elegant ones, gold and silver thread spun at their edges. Out of a shack-like type of construction saddles and bridles are sold together with crafted tools and ironmongery. 

Sellers chant out the prices of their wares while crowds of prospective buyers wind round the stalls, looking, touching, haggling. Schools of people bustle around doing their monthly shopping, thronging streets that feed upon other streets. A few scrawny dogs sniff around for scraps of food.

Slowed in their progress by the crowd, Merlin and Arthwr nevertheless make a point of checking every stall for what they're looking for. When they realise they won't be able to find the horse dealer on their own, they ask around for him. He usually puts up a stall at the edge of town, on the via Florentia, says the woman they stop. “You're sure to find him there.”

People bumping them, the noise of babies crying and the chatter of hagglers deafening them, they quicken their pace and make for the Via Florentia. 

Once they get there finding the horse dealer proves easy. He's the only man surrounded by horses. He's brought at least ten with him and is currently busy showing of the teeth of one to a customer. 

Arthwr and Merlin walk over to his temporary paddock. One of the horses strikes Merlin's fancy immediately. He's not an equine expert, but he knows a thing or two about health, and the beast, with its powerful withers and muscular frame, is in top form. “What about that one?” Merlin asks, leaning against the stockade.

"Fine horse,” Arthwr says, though Merlin can see he's zeroed in on and is entranced by a piebald stallion with a bushy tail. “But that one seems perfect too.”

As though it knows it has attracted Arthwr's attention, the horse clops over to them. Arthur climbs the fence's stanchions and leans up to strike the horse's neck. “Hello, beautiful,” he says and smiles when the horse flicks his ears and nickers softly.

“Should I be jealous?” Merlin asks, his lips tilting upwards.

“Ha, ha.” Arthwr caresses the horse's mane, lets his fingers run all over his powerful neck, and then peers into his eyes. “Isn't he beautiful?” Arthwr asks him, smiling wide and looking a tad dewy-eyed. “He looks a little bit like Hengroen.”

“Hengroen?”

“He was my horse,” Arthwr says, “back when I was, you know... My father presented it to me when I turned sixteen.”

“Oh, you got pretty royal presents when you turned sixteen,” Merlin says, his mouth skewing sideways though he makes sure to frame it into a grin right next. “I think I got a lecture from Gaius for my sixteenth.” 

Arthwr flushes softly, a little dusting of pink spreading across his cheeks. “Well, I was in need of a serious mount if I was to perform my duties.”

Merlin feels the hollows that form in his cheeks from the smiling he's doing. “I was teasing, Arthwr.”

Arthwr rubs at his scalp from the nape up. “It's just that I wasn't... I am not spoilt..”

“I know you're not,” Merlin says, trying to ease Arthwr's fears on the subject. “Now let's try and buy this horse, shall we?”

“Yeah,” Arthwr says a little sheepishly. Then he turns to the horse-dealer and says, “How much for the piebald and the grey?”

The horse-dealer leaves the farmer he's haggling with to come over and discuss prices with them. “Twenty sesterces.”

“That's completely absurd,” Merlin says both because he knows the rules of haggling and because the price the horse-dealer asked for is truly preposterous. They don't have so much money that they can throw it away on extravagant requests. “Two farm horses like that? They're scarcely worth ten.”

“My friend is right,” Arthwr says, turning around and ignoring the pielbald's attempts to nose his neck. “It's far too steep a price for these two.”

“The piebald was an army horse.”

“So we're talking about a horse that's old and tired and has been decommissioned.”

“No, no!” the horse-dealer says, “it's just a bit skittish in battle. But you're not going into battle, are you?”

Merlin and Arthwr look to each other. Merlin scratches behind his ear, clears his throat. Arthwr bobs his head. “We're travelling. We don't want a horse that will bolt the moment we're attacked by footpads.”

“It won't bolt.”

“How do you know?” Merlin asks.

“Because it's behaved beautifully with me.” The horse-dealer shrugs. “I can't ask for less than fifteen for the both of them.”

Fifteen, Merlin knows, is too much by far. Their money has got to last them awhile yet. While they can survive on the food they gather on the road, mostly fish and fruit, they'll need to buy some extra provisions if they don't want to get weak. Beside that they must pay for passage from Populonia. “No, we can't meet that price,” Merlin says. He's about to argue his point further when he catches sight of four horsemen, cloaked in black, riding the very same mounts Merlin saw in the stalls that night. “Arthwr,” he says, his objection to the horse-dealer's prices dying on his lips.

Something in Merlin's tone must have alerted Arthwr, for he looks up. When his jaw clenches, Merlin becomes sure he's spotted Marcellus' men too. “Here,” Arthwr says, “slapping a bunch of gold coins onto the horse-dealer's palm. “That's more than enough for those two.”

He vaults over the paddock's rail and mounts the piebald bareback. “Come, Merlin, no time like the present.”

Merlin looks from the grey to the guards, who're starting to nudge their mounts over. Though he hates the idea of riding without reins and saddle, he doesn't see how they can linger here without being captured. “Oh, hell,” he says, and leaps over the fence. Much less athletically than Arthwr, Merlin mounts onto the grey's back. The horse paws the ground, steps sideways and back. Merlin wants to calm him, but when he looks up and sees that Marcellus' men are cantering over, he realises he's got to do the opposite. “Arthwr,” he says, all the while clinging to the horse's neck with all his might.

“Nothing for it, Merlin,” he says, spurring his horse to gather momentum.

“Brigid help me,” Merlin says, kneeing his horse and steering him towards the same fence Arthwr cleared with such ease. He guides the grey with his knees, but closes his eyes a second or two before his mount takes the leap. For a moment it's as though he's air-borne, the morning air whipping at his clothes, rushing against his skin, lifting his fringe off his forehead. Then it's all over. With a clop of hooves Merlin's horse lands on the other side of the paddock. 

Merlin has barely sighed in relief than he's already spurring the poor beast. Thundering on at a madcap pace that makes Merlin queasy and Arthwr whoop excitedly, they gallop hard down the streets of Caere.

When they see them tearing down the Via Florentia, people dash out of their way, leap out of their course, spit curses at them. Merlin and Arthur steer their horses into risky turns, nearly shaving their skin off walls, clear stalls and carts by leaping over them, destroying the careful array of wares merchants have prepared for market day. Once they're clear of the market, they drive their horses headlong down the decumanus.

Merlin almost hopes that thanks to their crazy riding style they've lost their pursuers, but when he cranes his neck he finds they haven't. 

Marcellus' men are still giving chase. Two of them are quite close while a second pair of riders are lagging a little behind.

“Arthwr?” Merlin shouts.

“Make for the end of the decumanus, Merlin!” Arthwr yells back at him, even as he bends over his horse' neck so as to be able to go faster.

Merlin imitates him. His horse storms down the highly populated street unfolding before them. Without the help of reins, Merlin can barely guide him onwards, so their safety is almost all up to the animal. The horse being unrestrained, they sidle this way and that, rock into curves at angles that are not rider friendly, and do so at a reckless speed.

Because he's certain he'll kill himself, Merlin's hands get damp with coats upon coats of sweat that make gripping the horse's mane a challenge. His heart starts to clamour so loudly in his chest he can barely hear the fall of the grey's hooves on the cobbles. 

As if that were not enough, he doesn't think they can lose their pursuers. The decumanus is a straight road and allows for speed. But that doesn't mean it's an advantage. They can go faster, but so can Marcellus' guards. And without any obstacles to be reckless with and that Marcellus' men can throw in the towel over, they can't rely on their pursuers slowing down.

They'll be overtaken before they can reach the gate. 

Not having lost all hope of making it, Merlin urges his horse on with a stab of his kneecap. He's considering doing it again, when he hears a frantic yell. He lifts off the horse's back to look behind.

One of the horses has thrown its rider. The man is currently rolling into a ditch. One of his companions stands up in his saddle to see what's downed his partner and slides right off his horse's back too, saddle and all.

 

**** 

 

As the shadows lengthen, the horse laps water from the pool, his legs taut, his muscles reflexively contracting and relaxing as it paws up the tall grass around the bank. A little further upstream, Arthwr gets down on his haunches, cups his hands and drinks. By the time he's done, his fringe is as wet as the tip of his nose and he's wearing a huge grin. “The water's so fresh, Merlin!”

“You certainly seem to be enjoying it,” Merlin says, rubbing his hands down his tunic.

“You should have a go too,” Arthwr says. “My horse is positively loving it. He's a clever animal.”

Merlin snorts, walks his grey to the pool, where the water is greenest and clearest. “Are you implying your horse is smarter than me?”

“I would never,” Arthwr says, eyes so round and gleeful Merlin's sure he's yanking his chain.

“Ha, ha!” 

Merlin is watching as his grey waters himself when a rustle comes from the brush, a noise that sends birds and little animals shambling for cover. Alarmed, Merlin whirls round and unsheathes his dagger, but puts it down the moment he claps eyes on the source of all the brouhaha. It's just a small snake slithering back into the shadows. 

“I'm not that bad of a warrior,” Arthwr says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I'd have known if we were being followed.”

Merlin breathes out, slips his weapon back into the folds of its sheath, nods. “Sorry, I'm a bit tense.” He rolls his shoulders. “If those two guards hadn't slipped right off their saddles, we'd be...” He grimaces. “You know.”

“I know,” Arthwr says. “But even so I like to think we would have fought.”

“Yes, but...” Merlin exhales. “I don't want you to go back to... I don't want you to die.”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, placing his other hand on Merlin's free shoulder so that now he's grabbing him by both. “That may happen. Or not. But I will take all of Rome to get back home.” He lowers his gaze a a light blush spread across his features. “And I will fight to be by your side. All of that entails staying alive.”

Merlin gives him a small smile. “Tell that to the other guys.”

“Now, now, Merlin, I don't want to see any long faces,” Arthwr tells him, giving him a solid slap on the back, then leading him back to the centre of the clearing. “Let's enjoy this fine night.”

“It's a bit chilly for enjoyment,” Merlin says, lips curving a little under the pressure of a smile.

“Ha,” Arthwr says, pointing at him. “That's the first time I've seen you smile since we left Caere.”

“I was worrying for you,” Merlin says, muttering the words as he studies the expanse of grass he's sitting on. “That's why I wasn't smiling!”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, heaving a big sigh as he hunkers down across from him. He starts uprooting random blades of grass as he talks. “You're in danger too. I'd feel a bit better if, I don't know, you started worrying about youself rather than about me.”

Merlin looks up, smiles. “I just... don't want to lose you.”

“You won't.”

Since they can't ride when it's dark, not without risking injure to themselves and their horses, they decide it's overall safer to make camp for the night, especially now that they're no longer being actively tailed. Because of the hard ride, they're both conspicuously tired and hungry; so, overall, they're not particularly pained by the necessity.

They go hunting for their dinner. Merlin doesn't contribute much to the activity; he mostly watches while Arthur constructs a rabbit trap. Hidden in the bushes, they wait and wait until one hapless animal falls into it. Once they have their prey, they swiftly put it out of its misery. Arthur skins it and Merlin spits it. 

When that's done, Arthwr digs a small pit for a fire and Merlin drops the wood he's gathered next to it. Arthwr smiles and moves the wood on top of the mound, making a little tent of the branches, setting dry leaves and smaller twigs inside it as kindling. Before long they've got a fire going. It blazes merrily, sparkling like a bed of diamonds, sparks reaching upwards like souls aiming for the sky. The smoke is carried away by the breeze, but its light breaks the darkness that's starting to hang over the clearing. Trying not to burn their dinner, Merlin holds the spit above the flames. Quite soon, the dense aromas of cooking meat waft up their nostrils.

"Smells promising,” Arthwr says, rubbing his hands.

“I can sense your impatience,” Merlin says, surreptitiously sneaking a look at Arthwr while he turns the spit. “It's like one of those big comets lighting up the sky seers divine the future from.”

“I'm not being impatient.” Arthwr's expression acquires the slightest hint of petulance. “I was merely praising your skills. They seem to pass muster when it comes to rabbit cooking”

“Arthwr,” Merlin says, “I could put this spit to much better uses.”

“No, you're right.” Merlin bites into the quivering curve of his lips. “I would never do that to our dinner.”

When the meat is done to a turn, crispy and golden, fat dripping slowly from it and making the flames hiss and whoosh, Merlin lifts it off the fire and gingerly slides it off the skewer. He gives a yelp when he finds exactly how hot it is, and nearly drops it, but then manages to tear a chunk off and to hand it to Arthwr. He prises his own portion off with careful fingers . 

Leery of getting burnt again, he cautiously tears the meat from the bone, and begins munching on it. It's so good and it's been seemingly so long since he last ate something warm, he almost moans obscenely. Arthwr waggles his eyebrows. Merlin scowls, huffs, lets himself laugh, but his stomach growling for the food in his hands so instead of engaging in some mutual ribbing, he concentrates on gnawing at his food, sucking on his fingers to make sure he hasn't missed the tiniest drop of fat or the littlest morsel of meat. When his craving for nutrients has been satisfied and he can slow down eating, he asks Arthwr, “I suppose you're used to big princely feasts and that this is rather poor fare for you.”

“In a fashion,” Arthwr says, as he too munches on. “I did certainly have better food at my disposal growing up than at Marcellus'.” He makes a moue of distaste that softens when he adds, “We had hunting days and then there would be banquets. It would all be quite glorious.” Arthwr makes another face. “Not so much for the finery, which would have been nothing compared to Rome's, but there was this feeling that I had. We were sharing the fruits of the hunt. What I'd supplied my guests with.” Arthwr colours, lifts his shoulders. “I liked that. The idea of providing for my people. The pride there was in that.” Arthwr pauses, snatches a piece of meat off the rabbit's leg. When he's swallowed he says, “What about you... What traditions did you have?”

“Well,” Merlin says, sucking on the bones of his rabbit, “I wasn't a hunter, that's for sure.”

“I gathered that,” Arthwr says with raised eyebrows. He tilts his head. “But what about the rest?”

“The rest,” Merlin says, stretching the vowels, throwing his head back and gazing up at the sky. “The rest... we didn't have banquets per se. We had celebration days. We held our festivities in groves, eating the fruits of the earth.” Through half slitted eyes Merlin can still see the shaking fronds of the oak trees, the fire crackling in the clearing, the seer yelling, 'the yarn is spinning, cut the yarn'. The wind raises goose flesh on his skin as though he were still there, surrounded by a crowd of long stemmed trees murmuring to him. “I loved that.”

Arthwr nods his head thoughtfully. He must still be hungry though for he continues eating, detaching meat from the bare bones of his rabbit leg, rather that commenting in depth. At last he settles for saying, “These celebrations of yours seem like something worthwhile to look back on.”

“It's really in the past,” Merlin says, botching a sideways smile. “It's been so long I've all but forgotten a lot of what used to go on.”

“I see.”

When there's no more meat to be gawned on, Merlin buries the scraps of their food under a mound so as not to attract predators during the night. When the scraps have disappeared under clumps of freshly turned earth, he goes wash by the pool, dipping his hands in until his knuckles are cool and he can wriggle fingers he almost can't feel in the cold current. When the pleasant sensation has restored him, he starts rubbing the grease from the food out. Once he's done with that, he washes his face, his neck, behind his ears, making sure he's as clean as he can be while on the road. Much refreshed, he jogs back to the camp-fire. 

Arthwr's done with his food too, so he too walks over to the pond and has a wash. Unlike Merlin he pulls his tunic off and dunks his whole head underwater, shaking his head free of the excess damp once he re-emerges. “Gods, that was great.”

Dripping tunic in hand, he pads back to Merlin. They both lie down on their cloaks, close to the fire. The water droplets clinging to Arthwr's body dry seemingly one by one and Merlin can be nothing but mesmerised by the process, admiring how Arthur's skin comes to glisten in the firelight. Arthwr's frame is a delight to touch, both cool from his ablutions in the stream and hot from the fire. Merlin touches him with the flat of his hands, drinking in the shape of Arthwr, the alternating sensations.

When Merlin's touch becomes more purposeful, Arthwr kisses him.

It's soft and slow, though there's purpose in the way Arthwr's mouth moves across his. With a little sound that's a cross between a sigh and sob Merlin opens and responds with touches of his own, bites, licks. Moment by moment the contentedness his actions give rise to morphs into brighter sensations.

Seeking more of it, he leans in, bringing the two of them closer. Their breath comes quicker, stuttered. It sounds loud in the quiet of the night. Their bodies tangle; their thighs brush together in a whisper of flesh. Hands roam, atop clothes at first and then burrowing under them, spanning shoulders and neck, hair, arms, and hips.

They're on their sides, kissing, fondling, when Arthwr's undoes his belt, pulls up his tunic, lowers his small clothes. He wraps his fist around Merlin, his palm hot. Merlin sighs into Arthwr's kiss, arches into his grip, presses closer and into his touch, finds Arthwr's cock with fever ridden fingers and cups his hand around him. 

They stifle the sounds they make on each other's lips. They tremble all over, the ball of Merlin's thumb moving slowly up and down around the crown of Arthwr's cock, brushing along the slit, fisting him to a friction that makes Arthwr groan, makes him sigh his sighs against the soft of Merlin's lips. The little noises Arthwr makes cause Merlin's heart to suit its motions to an impossibly irregular beat. Their faces flush, their mouths redden and their kisses lose their centre, their lips finding the base of their noses, the corners of their mouths, the dips of their chins. Their hips rock forward in sharp little snaps.

Arthwr leans in, burying his nose against Merlin's throat, his parted lips feverishly skimming the side of Merlin' neck, sucking softly and then less so, putting an edge of a bite to his caresses. When Arthwr does that Merlin's eyes nearly roll back in their sockets. His spine loses consistency. "Arthwr,” he says, moving his hips into the touch. He wants Arthwr so much, he can't even put it in words. He can gasp for him and lose his sense of self in the pursuit of him, but can't vocalise what Arthwr means to him. Everything, the world.

He comes with a shiver, stays lethargic and soft for a few long moments. Even after the worst of the lassitude is over, he can't feel the bones his body. It's like it's been taken over by a variety of thrills shocks that play under his skin. When they settle, Merlin gets Arthwr off by hand, suiting his strokes to the pattern of Arthwr's breathing, the lines on his face, the thickening of his frowns and the pained moans he releases. Arthwr comes with a stutter of hips and a heavy breath against Merlin's throat.

They wash again, this time much more cursorily than before, and settle once more on their cloaks. The night is much colder than previous ones, so they huddle together, Arthwr's arm thrown across Merlin's middle, Merlin's leg tucked between Arthwr's- 

It's warmer this way and Merlin surrenders to sleep with no discomfort. He slumbers until the sun showers them with dawn light. 

After a quick breaking of their fast they're on the road again. Travelling on horseback rather than being on the match is a welcome change. Merlin's feet no longer hurt like they're fit to turn to stone and his calves don't scream blue murder with every step he takes. But even so they can't push all the way to Populonia in one go. For one their mounts need rest as much as humans would. And for another, Merlin has exchanged a set of pains for another. His thighs have been chafed raw by the intensive riding -- and saddle-less at that -- and his lower back aches in a way he's never known before. Merlin doesn't know if Arthwr's similarly affected, but when Merlin's face starts to tighten over his new found aches he's the one to call it a halt for the day.

That night they're too tired to do anything but eat – a scanty portion of salted meat Sophia shoved into their bundle -- huddle by the fire, and sleep. At the crack of dawn they start again, but this time they know that if they press hard they'll reach Populonia by nightfall. 

Encouraged by the decreasing distance, they ride hard along dusty roads that climb into the hilly country of Etruria, veering west towards the sea, which they can already see sparkle in the distance. Moved by the sight, they spur their horses down hill and come to a green plain interspersed with olive trees, the red earth so soft the hooves of their mounts sink into it. Across this stretch of ground there's a gulley over which a wooden bridge stretches. It's a mile distant, rickety looking and likely ancient.

“We'll have to dismount when we get there,” Arthwr says, with a frown stamped across his brow. “I don't trust it to bear our weig--”

They hear the dull fall of a myriad hooves first. It's only when they turn around that they clock the cluster of riders stampeding atop the ridge behind them. They're wearing red cloaks, crested helmets, and loricas that shine in the sun. “They're not Marcellus' people,” Merlin gasps, fingers tightening in the mane of his horse. 

“No,” Arthwr agrees, looking grim faced. “Those are legionaries."

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “I thought as much. So what do we do?”

“Ride hard for the bridge,” Arthwr says, before spurring his horse with his heel. 

Arthwr and Merlin start toward the construction. At the same time the legionaries spur their mounts down the crest of the hill, thrashing their horses in the hopes of overtaking them.

“Ride like the wind, Merlin!” Arthwr shouts. “Don't let them cut us off.”

Putting their knees to their horses's flanks, Arthwr and Merlin ride hard for the bridge. When they look back they find their pursuers have closed in. Their mounts are after all army thoroughbreds that can take this kind of strain much more easily that Merlin's grey. Arthwr's mount is faring better, pushing forward with all its strength, but even the piebald's not on a par with the legionaries' strong purebreeds.

They cross the plateau to the ravine at top, Arthwr leading, Merlin lagging a little behind, the thundering of the legionaries' mounts deafening him to everything else. 

Crashing across the plateau, the legionaries close upon Merlin.

“Faster, Merlin, faster!” Arthwr hollers back at him. 

Merlin puts his knee to the poor grey's side, lowers himself down on his neck, and murmurs prayers in his ear. “May Brigid lend power to you.”

A wind rises. It seems to lend his hose speed, till they're riding like thunder, leaving the legionaries behind. 

The bridge comes up. Merlin throws himself off the horse and leads him up to Arthwr, who's dismounted too. They crouch together behind the masonry wall at the base of the bridge. 

The speeding legionaries have already covered most of the distance to their location, their helmets and mail shirts catching the glare of the sun, but they haven't made it there yet.

Merlin covers his eyes with his hand to shield them from the blaze of the day. “Can you tell how many they are?'

“Twenty men approximately,” Arthwr says, squinting in the distance. 

“Far less than a century then,” Merlin says, trying to count their numbers himself. “But I fear that that guy riding front and centre is a centurion.”

“We've rated a centurion then,” Arthwr says, lips pressed tight. “Well, never mind.”

“Right,” Merlin says, unable to erase all worry from his tone.

Arthwr grabs him by the tunic and pulls him down so they're hidden by the rim of the gulley. “I want you to walk the horses across the bridge, quick as you can.”

“Why?” Merlin asks. “I mean why only me?”

“Because I have a plan,” Arthwr says, eyeing the bed of the stream. “And I can't pull this off with both horses on this side.”

Merlin eyes Arthwr warily. “You don't mean to do anything self-sacrificial, do yo?”

“No,” Arthwr says, puffing his cheeks in annoyance. “I mean to set my plan in motion.”

“All right,” Merlin says, trying to establish whether Arthwr is being honest about his lack of self-sacrificial intentions. “I'll do as you say."

Guiding the horses on with a swift pat to their rump, Merlin walks them to the other side of the river. “Now graze here like good boys,” he tells them before dashing back to Arthwr. 

Together they slide down towards the base of the bridge. They nearly trip over the sheer angles of the steep incline, but do at last reach the bank, where the timbers supporting the bridge can be seen driving into the ground. Eight vertical posts are rooted in the sand that gradually slopes into the stream bed. A second rank of timbers horizontally tops these vertical pylons. 

“Anyone catching up with us?' Arthwr asks.

Merlin peers over his shoulder, managing to catch a glimpse of the legionaries. “Not yet, but they're very close.”

“So we still have time,” Arthwr says.

“To achieve what exactly?”

With a series of careful steps, they make towards the first rank of posts, and slide their bodies between them. Their sandals sink in sandy earth and clumps of mud that make them slip and slide. They have to grab the wooden beams that support the bridge so as not to fall onto their backs, but by virtue of holding on tight they stay on their feet.

“Give me your dagger,” Arthwr says, once he's safely sitting astride one of the pieces of timber that form part of the bridge structure. 

Merlin hands his weapon to Arthwr. Arthwr starts cutting at the rope that keeps the wood planks together. He doesn't saw through its width, but leaves it so frayed that it's sure to snap. When the rope is much thinner, he hands the dagger back to Merlin, then climbs upward to look across the gorge. “They're almost on us.”

“So what do we do now?” Merlin asks, his heartbeat speeding up the closer the legionaries get to them.

“We make it back to the upper part of the bridge,” Arthwr says, starting up the incline leading back to the top of the defile. “And then run.”

Even though he can't see them because of the steep gradient of the incline, Merlin can feel the earth shake under the weight of the legionaries' mounts. Winded, Arthwr and Merlin make the apex of the slope and start for the bridge.

As they prepare to come onto it too, the legionaries slow their mounts and proceed in narrower columns.

Arthwr and Merlin take off running. They're more than partway reached the other side of the chasm, when they turn around. The party of Roman soldiers has barely come onto the bridge, when two planks of wood come free. They roll down the incline and disappear into the gulley.

The horsemen try and pull up, one of them hollers, “Get off the bridge. Off the bridge, it's not secure!”

But before anyone can obey those orders, a second set of timbers detaches itself from the ones it's tied to. It crashes down the incline and hits one of the structure's support beams. The entire structure starts to come apart.

“It's going,” the centurion commanding the legionaries yells, voice fraught with fear. “The bridge's going!”

In a panic the legionaries' horses veer together. Five of them get unhorsed. A few others manage to slip free of the inadvertent mêlée. Others manage to rein their horses back towards the other bank, the one they originally came from. 

“Run, Merlin, run,” Arthwr orders, pushing him northwards towards their own waiting horses. 

Merlin takes off at a lope. He's covered a hundred yards, when he realises that Arthwr's not with him. In fact he's still where Merlin left him, waving up and down. “Come on, come and get me.”

“Arthwr, don't be stupid,” Merlin shouts. “They'll capture you.”

“Go to the other side, Merlin!” 

Merlin shakes his head. “Not without you, you dimwit.” He starts running towards Arthwr.

More planks start to give, releasing a series of ear-splitting, splintering cracks that make the whole southern side of the bridge start to collapse. The ground under Merlin's feet suddenly seems much less stable and rather like soft clay. Timbers free-fall down the slope in a mound of dust and dirt. The ropes that hold the bridge together snap and cut wildly through the air. The bridge comes undone section by section.

The horses loose high-pitched screams that tear at Merlin's heart, the wooden structure roars and then everything gives. Merlin grabs Arthwr and launches himself at the other side of the chasm. Muscles screaming, he hauls Arthwr forward, until they both land on the ground, rolling in the sandy earth.

When the world stops whirling around him like an unfocused kaleidoscope, Merlin crawls onto his knees, hands burning with cuts, his body bruised. 

He's in time to see a few Romans fall into the gorge. Some clutch at thin air before hitting the side of the ravine. Most dive into the stream alongside their mounts to be borne away by its current. A few of the legionaries cling to the sheer ridge on the opposite shore; while several of their companions can't manage that and slither down the earthy bank, carving body shaped tracks in the dirt. 

The booming coming from the crumbling structure ceases as the last planks splash into the stream.

Scrabbling with his hands and digging his feet into the wall of the gorge, the centurion leading the legionaries makes it to the top of southwards side of the chasm. He's cut about the face, his mail shirt is missing laminae and his tunic is torn in places. “Prince Artorious,” he shouts, hands cupped around his mouth, “please don't do this. We don't mean you any harm.”

Arthwr climbs to his feet and dusts himself off.

Merlin does the same. Through gritted teeth, he tells Arthwr, “Don't believe him. He's lying.”

Arthwr nods subtly to Merlin. “I'm not surrendering!” he shouts over the chasm. Eyeing it meaningfully, he adds, “And you're not in a position to ask me.”

“Don't be foolish, Prince Artorious,” says the centurion. “I'm under orders not to harm you.”

“I believe that,” Arthwr nods, causing Merlin to gape and shake his head. “What I don't believe in is your ruling class, your emperor and your military.”

“Now that's pure paranoia, Prince Artorious,” the centurion yells in answer. He sounds dismissive even at so high a pitch. “We're allies. Now I may not be one of the big wigs, but I can parley. I can also assure you plans are being made back in Rome to safeguard your future. I may not be privy to them, not in detail, but, believe me, you have nothing to fear from them, or the Roman elite.” The centurion chucks his weapon with a shrug. “And everything to gain.”

Arthwr bobs his head in dramatic fashion so that the man on the other side of the shore can make out his gesture. “I'm sure plans are truly being made--” Arthwr seals his lips then deadpans, “To make a prisoner of me forever.”

“Nonsense,” the centurion shouts. “It seems to me it was your own people who sold you into slavery.”

“I'll settle that with those who betrayed me,” Arthwr says in a strong voice that easily carries to the other side of the stream. 

“Rome will help you achieve your vengeance.”

“I don't want vengeance.” Arthwr spreads his arms out. “And I don't need Rome's help.”

The centurion takes a step forward. It brings him to the very edge of the gulley. “Caesar will have you escorted back to Britannia. He'll have you reinstated on your throne.”

Arthwr laughs, though there's no purr of mirth to the sound. “Nice way of setting up an invasion. No, thank you. I'll deal with my own troubles alone.” The glint in Arthwr's eyes becomes cold, severe. “You can pursue me as much as you want, but you'll only have me dead. Go tell that to your emperor.”

“Prince Artorious, please, be reasonable,” cries the centurion, throwing his arms up in the air.

Arthwr turns on his heels, mounts his piebald horse and with a gesture invites Merlin to do the same. “Come, Merlin,” he says. “Populonia awaits.”

 

**** 

 

The peninsula on which Populonia lies rises outwards towards the sea, fronting an island that juts out from waters twinkling like jewels in the sun. The upper town sprawls on the hill, hosting temples and other civilian buildings. These constructions straddle the promontory at various points. The harbour district itself covers the foot of the hill. Two lighthouses sited on the cliffs enclosing the bay signal to the ships out at sea, their fires burning steadily from the top of the headland, a perfect beacon. 

Closer to the port area a line of warehouses stands, hulking and squat, their big doors guarded by sentries. A ramshackle vigiles outpost leans against one of these commercial buildings. 

A pile of hulks are tied to the breakwater; they have been pulled to one side to make way for marine traffic. Ships dot the harbour. Some of them look ready to haul anchor, the activity on their decks frenetic, while others appear much less ready to set sail, their rigging in need of repair, the canvas of their sails torn in places.

Needing to find passage, Merlin and Arthwr make enquiries about the navigational routes and proposed departure times of each vessel they come upon. The first answers they get are quite disappointing. 

“Sicily,” one ship-master says. 

“Baiae,” another says.

“We're sailing south,” the bosun of the third one tells them.

They try each ship laying at anchor in that part of the harbour and none of them is sailing long distance. They enquire of passing sailors and of captains walking the length of their ship's deck. They ask whether any of them knows of any vessel bound northwards. 

“We're seeking passage to Britannia,” Merlin explains, calm, polite, because irritating old sea dogs is something you do at your own peril. “We were wondering if you were perhaps sailing that way.”

“No,” the captain says, shaping his already leathery face in a frown that accentuates all his wrinkles. “We're certainly not bound northwards.”

“I see,” Merlin says, sharing a look of disappointment with Arthwr. “Thank you for your trouble.”

“I can offer you passage to Segesta Tigulliorum, if you want,” the captain offers, trying to entice them back. 

“That's still in Italy,” Arthwr says. “We were aiming to travel further North.”

“It's October, good man. You won't find anyone willing to go so far north,” the captain says, looking at the placid sky as if he were expecting a storm to break right at that very moment. “Even choosing a coastal route would be suicide. And believe me I like to keep my land in sight.”

“So you're saying nobody will be making for Britannia?” Merlin asks, his stomach tying itself in knots. 

“Not this season, no.” The captain wrinkles his nose. “I'm sure you'll find someone ready to take you next spring.”

“But the weather's holding!” Merlin says, gesturing at the placid seas and sky.

The captain tuts in a sing-song voice. “For now... In a few days the weather might change as it's bound to. As long as our ships are under cover from the harbour we're relatively safe, but out at sea... I know of no captain crazy enough to dare venture as far out as all that so late in the season.”

“So you're saying we're stuck in Populonia?” Merlin asks, thinking up back up plans and failing.

“I'll say this much,” the captain says, “I won't risk my crew on these seas in squall season.”

“Is there anyone who will?” Arthwr says, trying to salvage a situation that doesn't look good. “For good money?”

“I don't know,” the captain says, heaving up his shoulders. “You might ask of mad Cador. He's from far north and used to harsh climates. He might agree to make the journey, if you pay handsomely.” In a stage whisper, he adds, “And he's crazy enough to attempt the voyage.”

Arthwr nods and Merlin says, “Where do you think we can find this Mad Cador?”

“You will find him at the Anchor.” The captain flails his hand in the general direction of the establishment. “When he's not at sea, he's almost always there.”

The Anchor eating house sits on the shore, as close to the port as to be part of it. It has no name-board and it's as much of a winery as it is an actual eatery. Despite its anonymity, it seems to have collected a clientèle of people from all over the Mediterranean. Most of them look like sea-farer types, their skin weathered by the elements, their garb clearly that of sailors, their tunics faded from the sun, the necklaces around their necks – coming in the shape of anchors, Neptune figurines, and other nautical charms– giving away the nature of their trade.

When Merlin and Arthwr enter, a host of heads looks up. Those who don't deign to gaze up go on eating and drinking as though the two of them weren't on the horizon at all. 

“Who's Cador?” Arthwr asks a he surveys the patrons.

A long haired man with a crooked nose looks up. “Who wants to know?”

“Two wayfarers,” Arthwr says, “seeking passage.” 

Mad Cador uptwitches his eyebrow, which gives his face a subtly menacing cast. “I'm not leaving Italy any time soon. I'm wintering in Populonia.”

Uninvited, Merlin and Arthwr sit at the man's table. “What if the reward was handsome?” Arthwr says, putting a gold coin on the table.

Cador's mouth jerks in a moody moue. “It would depend on what you mean by that.”

“Thirty sesterces,” Arthwr says, his face flinty, clearly stating that he isn't one to be easily fooled.

“Too low of a compensation to risk my ship and crew,” Cador says, going back to the pottage he's eating.

“What about forty?” Merlin says, smiling as amiably as he can. “For passage to Britannia?”

“Absurd,” Cador replies. “I was born in Dumnonia and I know that you don't risk the Channel in autumn, not unless you wish to die.”

“Forty is double what you would get for any normal trip, even such a one as the voyage we describe,” Arthwr says, standing up with a screech of his chair. “I think you're trying to cheat us of our money.”

“Well, it's not as if you're not trying to cheat me of life and trade by asking me to risk my vessel on stormy seas!”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, gesticulating behind his back so Cador won't be able to make out their silent conversation. “Let's go. I can see now we won't find what we're looking for here.”

“Wait, Arthwr,” Merlin says, as Arthwr theatrically sweeps round, as if ready to go and put this place behind them forever. “Maybe if we offered fifty sesterces?”

Arthwr smiles in the direction of the door.

“I'll take you as far as Narbonenses for fifty,” the captain says, taking a sip of his wine and swilling it in his mouth till his cheeks bulge. “And that's the most I can do.”

“But that's in Southern Gaul,” Merlin says, trying to estimate how many thousand miles they would have left to cover if Cador dropped them in a Narboneses harbour. “It's two thousand miles short of our destination.”

Arthwr and Merlin step back to confer together. “We'd have to winter in Narboneses,” Merlin says. “We won't find anyone there willing to sail as far as Britannia.”

“Perhaps not,” Arthwr agrees. “But then again we might be able to travel northwards across the interior.”

“Arthwr,” Merlin says, remembering the one voyage he undertook that did involve crossing the whole length of Gaul from the ocean to its southern shores. He'd been marching with a legion then, moving at their pace, putting up camp when the commander required it. Merlin recollects perfectly well how hard a march that was, how tired he was at the end of each day. He'd been a child then, but a healthy one. If anything he'd been more used to roaming far afield than he is these days. Even with the breaks Arthur's describing the journey will be a tough to undertake. “It's going to be a challenge. And dangerous.”

“We could take breaks on the road,” Arthwr says, as if guessing Merlin's misgivings. “But at least that way we wouldn't be bound by the calendar. Only snows would stop us.”

“Well, at least this would get us as far as Gaul, which is better than staying in Populonia,” says Merlin, considering the pros of Cador's proposal. “That's almost half way there.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying,” Arthwr says, pushing up both eyebrows.

“All right.” Merlin turns around. “Let's tell our new captain he's got passengers.”

They stalk back up to Cador's table, put a bag of money on it. “For the whole journey, plus accommodation and victuals for us and our horses.”

Cador tries to make a grab for the money bag, but Arthwr withholds it. 

“For passage and for victuals,” Cador says, attempting to strong-arm the pouch away from Arthwr. “But I won't be having any horses on board. Not enough space in the hold.”

“We need those horses,” Arthwr says, simmering with indignation. Merlin can't tell if he's reluctant to part from the animals because he's grown fond of them or because of how valuable those mounts are for the crossing. “You must allow them on board.”

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn't,” says Cador. “I run a corbita not a galleon.”

“What are we supposed to do with our horses then?” Arthwr says, shoulders going down. “We can't abandon them.”

“I know someone who'll buy them off you.”

“We're in a hurry to leave Populonia,” Arthwr says, his tone free of inflexion. “We don't have time to bargain.”

“In a hurry, are you?” the captain waggles his eyebrows, picking up on that particular thread of the conversation rather than Merlin and Arthwr's reluctance to waste time wrangling over the price of their horses. “Well, that's no skin off my back, though that might up the fare. Especially if the reason behind your desire to hasten puts me or my crew at risk.”

“That wasn't part of our agreement,” Merlin protests, because he doesn't want to be cheated out of all their remaining money. “And you know that!”

“The same way I knew you were in trouble, you mean?” the captain argues.

Put it like that, Merlin can do nothing but acquiesce to pay for a 'danger' surplus. They hand Cador the money, though only half of the whole sum they agreed upon. The rest, they say, is going to be his once they're on board his ship. “Now where do we find this person willing to buy two horses from us?”

“My friend Agrippa has a farm uphill,” Cador says, pointing upwards with his finger. “He'll buy your horses off you.”

“As we said,” Arthwr says, his countenance severe, “we're pressed for time.”

“I need to prepare the ship for sailing anyway,” the captain tells them. “I can't put to sea before I've stocked up for the voyage or before before I've run a thorough check of the vessel. That'll take hours. We won't be setting sail before nightfall. There's nothing you can do to change that.”

Merlin sighs and Arthwr lets his shoulders droop. Having destroyed the bridge leading to Populonia has given them a few hours advantage over the emperor's men, but wasting so much time in the city itself, without having anywhere to lie low, is going to nullify that. Still, it seems like they have no choice. “Where will we find you?”

“You'll find the Fides anchored at berth number ten,” captain Caradoc says. “We'll set sail at the seventh hour. Not a minute before.”

“We'll be there,” Arthwr says, and his words have the ring of a promise to them.

Once they've left the eating house behind, their money bag much lighter, they ride uphill towards the upper town. With no desire to become conspicuous by way of launching their animals to a gallop, they take the road at a slow trot. Still proceeding at that pace, they leave the main thoroughfares behind and make for the rural area. 

At the edge of town fields open up. They're bursting with greenery, shrubs, trees, mostly lemon ones, still heavy with the burden of their fruit. Cobbled streets give way to dirt roads, tracks of brown and bronze that meander up and down the hilly rise leading to the promontory. 

Around these parts, most fields are pocket sized, none of the latifundia more typical of Roman farming as Merlin knows it. They are dotted by labourers. They work stripped to their middle, with their backs bent, weeding and irrigating fields that have already been harvested. Each field is bounded by either ditch or fence, or a drystone wall. All of them are orderly though they do not appear rich, much like the farmers working them.

At last they come upon a little farmstead. It's made up of three buildings, a brick house with a flat roof, and two wooden constructions, one of which, given its proportions, could easily be a shed, the other a cattle byre. A man is sitting on a bench outside the first building, with his legs stretched forward in the shadow of the main house. 

Merlin and Arthwr dismount and lead their horses up to the farmer.

The man only looks up when they're upon him. 

“Agrippa?” Merlin asks gently so as not to startle him.

“Yes, I am Agrippa,” the man says, squinting at them. “Who looks for me?”

“Cador sent us,” Arthwr says. “He says you are probably willing to buy our horses off of us.”

Agrippa stands walks a circle around the horses, touches their rumps, their backs, inspects their teeth. “Why do you want to sell them?”

Merlin knows that the fewer people know what they're about the better. But he also realises that that question can't go unanswered lest Agrippa think they have some ulterior motive for their silence. “We're about to start on a journey and can't take them with us.”

“They're not bad mounts,” the farmer says, “but they're not young colts. And this one here--” He pats the side of the piebald “--is not even a farm animal. I'm not sure how much they're worth to me.”

“I just want the two of them to be treated well,” Arthwr says, patting the withers of his piebald. “We're not looking for anything other than that.”

“In that case,” Agrippa tells them, “I'm sure I can give you what you want.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “And that would be?”

“Twenty silver pieces,” says the farmer. “I can't do any better than that.”

It's far far less than what they paid for the horses, but it's not as if they hadn't known they wouldn't get back what they had laid out. However scarce, Agrippa's money would still come in very useful, especially considering the long journey they have ahead of them. “That will do,” Arthwr says, at the same time Merlin makes a small acquiescing noise.

They conduct the transaction in the house, then they lead the horses to the byre. 

Though they ought to go by now, Arthwr seems rooted by his piebald's new stall. He's got both hands in its mane and is rubbing them up and down it. “I hope you get have a nice life here,” he says. “I mean, I checked the other horses. They're fine, they're healthy, and their food buckets are full. So I think you'll be well taken care of. Unlike Hengroen.”

The horse neighs softly.

Merlin comes up to Arthwr and says, “I'm sorry you have to part with him. You're already half in love.”

Arthwr turns, smiles softly at him. “It's not with him I'm already more than half in love with.”

Merlin's body goes hot like coals. He doesn't blush though. He only ducks his head, says, “I'll say goodbye to my grey then.”

“Yes, yes, all right. Do that.”

The grey's new stall lies a few paces away from the piebald's. Just like Arthwr did, Merlin reaches out to pat his horse, but the grey pre-empts him, nuzzling his hand and nipping his fingers. His nose is wet and quivering, and when it touches skin, it tickles. Merlin laughs. “You're a very sociable beast!” Merlin says. “I think we could have been friends if... you know.” The horse nudges his head against Merlin's shoulder and tries to lean against him. 

“I see you're getting emotional,” Arthur says, sounding much closer than he previously was.

“I'm not getting emotional,” Merlin says, refraining from telling Arthwr that he was way more so than Merlin is currently is. “I was just having a nice moment with my grey here.”

“They're fine animals,” Arthwr comments, as if agreeing that yes, indeed, such moments are warranted. "The both of them."

“Yeah...”

“If I get my thro—” Arthwr turns his head aside. “We'll get new horses.”

They part from Agrippa the farmer with a handshake and recommendations about the well being of the horses. Agrippa promises them he's going to treat them well, that he always has been respectful of his animals. He guarantees they'll lead a nice life on his farm. 

With the sun conspicuously lower on the horizon and definitely paler, they start back towards Popoluonia harbour. Without horses reaching the lower town takes them longer than the ascent did, but they're still not late for the meet up with Cador.

In spite of the hour the dock is lined with transit sheds and temporary structures. It teems with noise and activity, sailors loading provisions aboard variously sized vessels, mariners yelling orders and curses both, carpenters hammering away at bulkheads and keels. Sheets and halyards twang in the evening wind, while other lenghts of sail are being mended or hung up to dry. 

A boat passes, stirring waves that lap in towards the jetty, thrashing the water into foam. The quay is packed with travellers and merchants, carters pushing their carts forward, pedlars trading trinkets, and gamesters dicing their luck away.

At the mouth of the dock a group of soldiers stands, their red cloaks billowing in the marine breeze, their garb standing out among the informal get ups of the other members of the crowd. The group seems busy getting the bearings of the harbour. A few outliers stop the passers-by, barking questions at them in a brusque tone that half carries to where Merlin and Arthwr are. 

Even if they hadn't recognised some of their faces, they would have been able to spot the battered centurion anywhere. 

Luckily, the centurion is not facing their way. He's interrogating the captain of a small corbita anchored four berths away from Cador's ship. 

So as not to be spotted by any of the legionaries, Merlin and Arthwr duck behind a pile of crates and watch the centurion interrogate the man.

“What do we do now?” Merlin asks, trying to peek behind the crates without being seen. “If we try to reach the Fides, he'll see us.”

“We can't hide here either,” Arthwr says. “Too little cover and what we do have of it too dependent on them not shifting position.”

“What if we fight our way to the ship?” Merlin asks. Arthwr's a fighter and Merlin has his dagger. They might try. “They're battered and bruised from our run in at the bridge. We might stand a chance.”

“We might try it.” Arthwr slowly bobs his head, assessing. “But I still don't like the idea of you fighting.”

Merlin harrumphs. “I will try,” he says. “For you.”

“There might be other solutions,” Arthwr says.

Merlin hopes there are, but can't think of any. “They're between us and Cador's ship.”

“Yes,” Arthwr admits.

“And they've still got the upper hand in terms of numbers,” Merlin says. “I count eight, nine, ten of them.”

“Yes.”

“And Cador's got half of the fare's money,” Merlin point out. “He won't return it to us if we fail to show up.”

“Indeed.”

“So we're screwed?”

Arthwr's face tightens. "Yes, Merlin, we can safely say that."

 

**** 

 

A carter passes by. He trundles his cart along the length of the quay. It's heaped with week-old fruit, crates upon crates of it, over-ripe strawberries that look black in the dying light, peaches whose skin has grown orange and hollow in places, and grapes that have wrinkled past recognition. It's a pile so tall it stands as high as a man's chest.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Arthwr asks, watching the carter push the contraption forwards on wheels that creak with his every step.

“Yes,” Merlin says.

“Then run for cover,” Arthwr says in a stage whisper. 

Bent over, Arthwr darts towards the cart then slows down to suit his pace to that of the carter's.

When Merlin joins him, crouching just like him, he hears Arthwr tell the carter, “There's money in it for you if you escort us all the way to that ship over there without raising the alarm.”

The carter twists his pursed mouth sideways, hums consideringly, then says, “All right. Deal.”

With the cover of the cart, they make it across a distance of at least three hundred paces. Hunched over as he is, Merlin can see the lines that mark one cobble from the other and the dirt it is strewn with, but he can't make out how far they are from the Fides. He doesn't feel like straightening out of his stoop to check. If he does, he'll be immediately sighted.

“When we get closer to the Fides,” Arthwr says, “I want you to run for the ship.”

“Run, right,” Merlin says. Pity that he can't see where he is. “Got it.”

They crawl forwards for another hundred paces, then Arthwr sprints. Merlin darts after him a few seconds later, pistoning his legs in a dash for the Fides. He's accelerating, heart beating an eclectic beat, when something whistles past his ear. An arrow lands between two paving stones, an inch away from Merlin's back foot. Before he has any time to panic, another one flies so close it nearly shaves the hair off his temple. “Arthwr,” he yells. “They're shooting|”

“I know,” Arthwr yells, “Make for the ship!”

Merlin thrusts his body forward and ploughs right ahead, hoping he won't get hit by an arrow as he scurries for the ship. He just runs, giving it his all, until his lungs hurt and he's going so fast his legs nearly give under him. While arrows rain around him, he rushes down the jetty, covering the final stretch separating him from dock seven. He goes headlong for the gangway, leaps, and is hauled aboard by Arthwr and two of the Fides' sailors.

“What the hell is the meaning of this!” Cador says, stalking up to them, even with arrows hitting the side of his ship. 

“They are the trouble you took a surplus for,” Merlin says, panting.

“That's not normal trouble!” Cador says, squinting in the distance, “Those are fucking legionaries! Why are legionaries making for my ship?”

“We have no time to explain why,” Arthwr says, squaring his shoulders. “Suffice it to say, they're the reason you'll set sail immediately.”

Cador sticks his chest out too. “Who's stopping me from dropping you into the hands of those cranky and, might I add, armed soldiers?”

“The fact that you have no reason to like them,” Arthwr says. “You're from Dumnonia, right? I'm a Briton too.”

“Are you from Dumnonia?”

“No,” Arthur says.

“Then you're no compatriot of mine,” Cador says, placing his hands on his hips. “Why should I help you?”

Whistles rend the air, coming both from the legionaries, and the solitary guard at the vigiles outpost. The centurion's squadron is rushing over to the Fides, yelling at the captain not to haul anchor. The centurion's words are the most clear: “Every man halt! You're harbouring enemies of Rome!”

Arthur cocks his head in the Romans' direction and tells Cador, “Because if someone doesn't stop them, they'll rule the world over.”

Cador nods jerkily. “That's good enough for me,” he tells Arthwr. To the rest of his crew he hollers, “All hands on deck, prepare to cast off!”

The crew scatters in different directions, each performing the task assigned to them, hauling and releasing the docking ropes, heaving the anchor, adjusting the trim of the sails. Before the legionaries can get on board, the gangplank is hauled in and the Fides shoves off. 

A westerly wind picks up, lending the Fides speed as it leaves the harbour.

With the gangplank gone, the legionaries on the jetty halt their pursuit in one body lest they fall into harbour waters. One or two windmill their arms with the clear intent of keeping their balance. They make it by a hair's breath and keep standing on the jetty rather than crash into the docking pool. The centurion though sheds his cloak and boots and looks as though he wants to dive after the departing vessel. One of his men stops him with a hand on his shoulder. 

Merlin heaves a sigh of relief, looks to Arthur first, then the to the purple horizon.

“It looks as if we've made it,” he says.

 

*****

 

The only private space on board the Fides is a small, uncovered stretch of deck between the break aft of the forecastle and the wheelhouse. By day, whatever angle the sun is slanted at, it's always bright. At night it's always cool. When Merlin goes there after twilight he regularly finds the stars shining clearly overhead, twinkling, winking down at him in a game of reflections the water participates in. And though it's cold, the air pungent with a new crispness shore breezes don't possess, it's quite beautiful out here. 

Merlin makes himself comfortable at his usual spot up against the bulkhead, a grain sack for a pillow, a blanket wrapped around him to keep him from getting chilled. Merlin crosses his feet at his ankles, his arms around him, with his hands under his armpits for warmth. He stares upwards. Clouds scuttle in the sky, but despite the drop in temperature over the last few days, the horizon is still clear. The dog star shines brightest of all. 

Merlin briefly wonders if the Romans are right in deeming it a harbinger of anger, rage. To Merlin it appears beneficent, an ornament of nature, like a flower, or a bright stone you put in a crown, something beautiful, something to be revered. A sign of peace. 

If he closes his eyes to slits, he can draw patterns between the stars, a tracery of bright threads that form luminescent shapes. The moment he's finished drawing it, he traces another, connects the last one to its predecessor. The lines sparkle like diamond dust, vibrate like ropes strung taught, reassemble in forms Merlin hadn't predicted. A dog, a cart, a dolphin. 

Merlin smiles.

“Seasick?” Arthwr asks, setting down next to him.

Merlin squirms under his blanket, says nothing.

“You are, aren't you!” says Arthwr, sounding smug, seeking his gaze, which Merlin doesn't meet. “You could have said. I'd have done something to help you or joined you in your exile here on deck.”

“Why should you?” Merlin asks, tipping his head to the side. “You're pretty comfortable in that small, sultry, low-ceilinged hole Cador calls his premium passenger cabin.”

“So you are sea-sick,” Arthwr says, with rather too much merriment for Merlin's tastes.

“At most I admitted to being claustrophobic, not seasick,” Merlin says, feeling the pitch and roll of the ship more than he did before now that his attention has been brought to it. “There's a difference.”

Arthwr nods. For a few beats he says nothing and all that Merlin hears is the slapping of the waves against the hull and the rudders, the occasional piping squeal of a nocturnal sea-bird. At last Arthwr murmurs hurriedly. “We share everything. Whatever comes.”

“Arthwr,” Merlin says, sitting up.

“Merlin, please don't fight me on this.”

Merlin half smiles. He's not sure that Arthwr can see him in the dark, but he does want to smile for him. “I wasn't about to fight you.”

Arthwr cocks his head. “Then what were you about to do?”

“I was about to protest I wasn't sea-sick.”

“You know that I wouldn't tease you,” Arthwr says, shifting in the dark until he's positioned his body close to Merlin's, his head on the same half-empty sack as him. “Right?”

Merlin laughs, rolls onto his side. “I doubt that. I'm really pretty sure you would.”

“I wouldn't,” Arthwr says, his eyes bright when he cosies up to Merlin. “I'm way too noble for that.”

“Liar,” Merlin says, placing his hand on Arthwr's hip.

“I know of a way to take your mind off it,” Arthwr says, covering his palm with his.

“Oh, I see your evil intent now.”

“Shush,” Arthwr says, fanning his fingers on Merlin's neck. “That was not what I was talking about.” He nevertheless presses his mouth against Merlin's. “I was thinking that I should teach you how to fight.”

Merlin huffs. “How to fight? On a ship!”

“Well, think about it,” Arthwr says, lifting his shoulders. “We're going to be stuck on this ship for weeks. We need to do something to kill the time.”

“I'm sure the captain--” Since living on board the same vessel as him Merlin no longer dares call the man Mad Cador, not even in his head. “--will have devised a bunch of activities for us. He wants us to help sail this thing. He's made that clear.”

“Yes, but that will be light stuff,” Arthwr tells him. “He's not trusting us with anything too complicated. And you need to keep you engaged. See, we're looking for something to take your mind off the pitching and rolling of the ship.”

“Thank you for reminding me by the way,” Merlin says, nipping at Arthur's chin with his teeth.

“So you're finally admitting it! You're seasick!” Arthwr says, triumphant. When Merlin does nothing but make small disapproving noises, Arthwr changes tack and adds, “Knowing how to fight will come in useful. We don't know if the Emperor's men have given up their pursuit.”

“You think they haven't?” Merlin asks, feeling the weight of a frown form between his eyes.

“They have reason to chase us,” Arthwr says, sighing softly. “They might have given up or they might have not. The truth is I can't be sure and neither can you.”

“You're right,” Merlin says. If he were Claudius, he wouldn't give up so easily either. “They might be tailing us.”

“Commandeering a ship won't be too hard for a centurion,” says Arthwr, his grip on Merlin's hip tightening. “Which means we must be ready for them. The both of us.”

“We will be,” Merlin reassures Arthwr, combing his hair from the base of his nape upwards. “I promise.”

~ ~ ~ ~ 

Like most mornings Merlin finds Arthwr in the hold, training. Before the sun is high he usually makes time to exercise. He does push ups and sits up, crunches, performs any sort of activity that will keep him fit in such cramped quarters. He hones his skills with the weapons he has at his disposal. He uses either his gladius or the bow and arrow that the captain had granted him permission to practice with, provided he do it away from his crew.

“Doing well?” Merlin asks, as Arthwr puts the bow down.

“Yes,” Arthwr says, freeing the arrows from the barrel lid he'd shot them at, “I'm not as rusty as I thought I was.”

“Good,” Merlin says, walking over to him. “Good.”

Arthwr raises his eyebrow at Merlin's new gladius, a weapon he found in the sea chest in his cabin.

“Right,” Merlin says, handing him the weapon. “Here we go.”

Arthwr weighs the sword in his hand without lowering the point. “If this was runnelled it'd be better, but I suppose it's an improvement over that dagger of yours.”

“Run that by me again,” Merlin says, pointing at the blade. “What do runnels do exactly?” 

“They are those indentations you can find along the blunt side of a sword,” Arthwr says as he points at the weapon. “They allow air to surf along the length of the blade so you can.” Arthwr's mouth purses. “Pull it out more easily.”

“Pull it out?” Merlin asks, not seeing how this is helpful at all, seeing as he's found no sheath to match the sword yet.

“Of flesh, Merlin, “to pull it out of flesh.”

Merlin should have guessed. He should have done so the moment he saw Arthwr's face. But his mind doesn't really work that way. He forces himself to swallow the acidic bile that coats his tongue, tries to work heat in the tips of his fingers, which have gone cold. He's not positive he succeeds, so he says, “Arthwr, I'm not sure this is what I should be doing. I'm a healer.” He casts his mind back to his first initiation into the rites. He recollects the secret words and incantations, the spells that were taught to him so he'd be able to heal those in need. Those words had power to them. He remembers how they had etched themselves on his skin, how they wrote themselves on his heart. He wonders if he will lose the right to perform the healing arts if he disrespects his vows. Fighting for Arthwr is one thing. Contributing to save his life when their odds aren't good is understandable. Learning how to deal death for his own benefit... “I'm not sure it's right for me to learn how...” His face tingles with tension. “How to kill.”

“You'll learn how to,” Arthur says, wrapping Merlin's hand around the hilt of his sword. “And that's it.”

Merlin fancies the metal in the hilt burns his palm. “I can't, Arthwr. It's not really who I am.”

“You fought before!” Arthwr says, giving him a shove so he has space to pace the confines of the hold. “In Rome. You fought.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, nodding his acknowledgement. “To get you your freedom, to save you. I've found.” He makes a little huffed noise. “I've found I'm ready to compromise when it comes to you. But for me... I can't learn to fight for me. I don't... I don't think it sits right."

Arthwr whirls round, he encloses Merlin's palm in his, around the gladius' hilt. “I know. I know. I want to respect that. But we said... Please.”

"That I should learn," Merlin says, remembering the conversation they had the night before. He ducks his head. "You're right, I said I would and I will."

“Good," Arthur says, shoulders slumping with apparent relief. "Let's get you started then. As though you were a young Albionenses nobleman picking up arms for the first time. Though of course in that case you'd be twelve."

Merlin snorts, trying to forget the real purpose of this training session, and hefts the sword. "This is way heavier than the dagger."

"You say that because you've never sparred or fought a proper enemy, not a day in your life," Arthwr says. When his gaze reverts to Merlin's sword hand, he adds, "and because your wrists are no bigger than those of a boy."

"I protest that!" Merlin says, studying his own arms. "I'm a grown man!"

"Not judging by your wrists," Arthwr says. "You'll have to build up muscle mass from scratch."

"How do I do that?" Merlin asks. He knows what kind of advice he would give a patient wanting to tone back up after a long illness. He'd recommend long walks, some open air exercise. But none of this applies to him because he's not recovering from any bout of ill health. He's young and fine. "I mean..."

Arthwr doesn't even let him finish. "You'll try a few basic exercises first. We'll go from there. For now just lift your blade thirty times.” He shows Merlin how. “Until your arm is horizontal, like this."

Merlin starts the sequence, just as Arthwr prescribed. By the time he's nearly done, his biceps hurt as if he's worked out all day. He winces and Arthwr raises an eyebrow. "All right, all right, perhaps I did need some toughening up."

"Well, yes," Arthwr tells him. "Albionenses children are usually fit enough to take up this kind of training when they're ten."

“You said twelve before!" Merlin says, not appreciating how Arthwr is laying it on thick. “Besides, I don't believe you.”

"You just can't appreciate the beauty of our customs," Arthur says, nodding when Merlin lays his sword arm down for a few moments of rest.

"I can appreciate your traditions," Merlin says. "Just not when my muscles scream blue murder."

They feel heavy and burn with every little stretch. He'd rather not do this at all – both for ethical reasons and because he can be lazy–, but can see how he could use the exercise. "What now?"

"Now you plant your feet apart." Arthwr places one of his legs between his and makes him widen his stance. "And swing your gladius from side to side. After that--" He sweeps his arms outwards."--you'll swim a mile. After all water's plentiful around here."

Merlin's shoulders lift at the notion. "Ha!" he says. "I'll have you know I may not be a tough gladiator but I'm an excellent swimmer."

"Riight."

“I am!” Merlin says as executes a few of the swings Arthwr ordered him to do. He feels like a bit of an idiot as he does. “Oughtn't I, I don't know, move my feet?”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says squeezing his sinuses. “I'm not trying to teach you how to keep form in a day. What we're trying to do here is straightening your sword arm.”

“Well then,” Merlin says as he changes the direction of his swings under Arthwr's supervision. This building muscle thing is going to be tedious, Merlin just knows it. “Strengthening, because I'm weak, logically.”

“That's not what I said,” Arthwr says, though it's exactly what he did imply when he compared Merlin to a boy. “It's just that you're...” Arthwr casts his lips in an O shape, but no sound comes out of his mouth. “Just do sixty of each set, both when you rise and before you go to bed.”

There's such a tone of finality, easy authority, to Arthwr's delivery, that Merlin almost snaps upright and salutes the way legionaries do. Almost. Instead he protests, “That's going to kill me!”

“No, it's not,” Arthwr says, sounding amused. “I've trained many a man. Nobody ever died.”

“Well, you might have and they might've made it,” Merlin says, “but that doesn't mean I'm going to survive this regime of yours.”

“Of course you will,” Arthwr says, clapping him on the shoulder. “With me teaching you how to take care of yourself, you're going to be fine.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

Over the next few days Merlin does as Arthwr bid him and trains. Mostly he does this alone, executing those exercises Arthwr told him would build up his muscle mass. Sometimes one of the deck hands joins him and sometimes he gets to perform some less mind-numbingly dull activities, just because Arthwr is in a mood to let him swim or climb the mast. (Merlin finds out he likes heights.) 

After the first week and when Merlin is a little stronger, Arthwr joins him. They have mock fights on the deck. Sometimes they even gather a crowd. The objective is to get Merlin to defeat Arthwr. It never happens. Mostly because Merlin will never be on a par with Arthwr anyway and partly because Arthwr distracts him with speeches about the nature of combat and Merlin's own abilities at it.

“Hand to hand is the hardest form of combat there is,” Arthwr says, the flat of his sword resting on his shoulder, the point levelled at the sky. “It takes preparation, concentration and skill.”

Merlin nods, though he's not sure why Arthwr's telling him all of this. Some of it Merlin knew before. The rest, Merlin thinks, won't ever come in useful to him “Right.” 

“You're not much of a natural,” Arthwr says, though he doesn't sound dismissive, and more matter of fact. “Therefore, you'll have to learn all the wily tricks you can.”

“Wily tricks,” Merlin repeats.

“Yes,” Arthwr says, eyes full of fire. “Anything that will win you the fight. Anything that will let you get away with your life.”

“Arthwr,” Merlin starts, taking a step forward.

“No, listen,” Arthwr says, beating the tempo of his delivery with his foot. “You'll have to learn how to improvise. How to turn your weaknesses into an advantage.”

Merlin doesn't think that's going to be as easy as Arthwr's making it sound, but somehow he doesn't want to break his heart and tell him so. “Right.”

“If you're caught weapon-less,” Arthwr continues, “I want you to stop and think. I want you to consider what can become a weapon. A stone, a length of rope, a pointy object. Anything might serve.”

“Anything.”

“Yes,” Arthwr says, wrapping his palm around Merlin's hand. “Never use your bare knuckles.” Merlin lifts Merlin's hand and kisses it, his lips brushing whisper soft against Merlin's skin. “There's nothing easier than breaking your hands.” Arthwr nips at the soft webbing of skin between Merlin's fingers. “You need your hands.”

“Are we still talking fighting?” Merlin asks, with a voice grown low. 

“Yes,” Arthwr says. “We are talking about keeping you alive.”

“Arthwr, I'll make it.”

“Make sure that's a promise you keep.”

Over the next few days, they start practising with live blades. Merlin doesn't like them much, and for all of Arthwr's pulling his blows Merlin does manage to become the victim of a few scrapes, mostly scratches for which Arthwr doesn't apologise but does act repentant over. He in fact binds the wound himself though it doesn't need dressing at all. Merlin attempts to tell him he would be much more qualified to do it, but explaining that to Arthwr proves impossible. He even fetches Merlin's slop from the galley so Merlin can eat it on deck, where he prefers staying nights. Merlin tries to tell him that his actions are nice, in fact he's warmed by them, but not necessary. Arthwr makes a blank face and tells him he doesn't know what he's talking about.

That night Merlin rolls onto his side in their blanket fort so he's facing Arthwr. “I would have liked to have been there, you know. When you were a young prince training to take up arms for the first time.”

Though Arthwr's voice is lace with the threads of sleep he answers. “I would have loved for you to be there too.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, and falls asleep fancying himself in the British kingdom Arthwr knew as a youth.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

The crew is busy to a man. A few of its members are sitting in a semi-circle between the main hatch and mast. Under the supervision of a more senior sailor – one whose hair and beard are completely white – they are repairing one of the sails. They scissor out the torn sections and stitch new lines of cloth over the rent parts.

Captain Cador is leaning against the starboard rail, the picture of complete relaxation, when one of the sailors points at something in the distance and shouts, “Ship, ahoy!”

“Where, what?” shouts Cador at the lookout.

“To larboard, sir,” the boy yells. “It doesn't look like a warship, capt'n, but it ain't a merchantman either.”

“Fuck it all the way to Rome and back,” the captain says, before ordering, “Unfurl sails!”

The men in the topyards scramble to execute the order, the sails billowing in the wind.

“Make all sail!” captain Cador orders. When he's sure his instructions have been heeded, he adds, “Loose topsails and topgallants.”

“Aye, aye,” say a bunch of the sailors.

This time though Cador doesn't stop and supervise them. He marches over to Merlin and Arthwr and spits out, “You're responsible for this! You know why that ship is giving us chase.”

“Will it overtake us?” Merlin asks, fearing they'll be boarded. 

“No, fortunately, it won't, because my ship is of a faster class than theirs.” The captain ups an eyebrow. “But that doesn't mean I don't want to know what's going on.”

“We paid you insurance money,” Arthwr points out, arching an eyebrow.

“That covers any danger I might run in. It isn't an out for you, allowing I be left in the dark about such a thing as that!” He cocks his head in the general direction of the ship pursuing them. “I want to know why legionaries want to get their hands on you!”

“I don't know what orders they are acting under,” Arthwr says.

“But you can suspect!” Cador says, folding his arms across his chest. 

Arthwr shares a look with Merlin. Merlin gently bobs his head. They need to take a risk if they want to make an ally of Cador. “I think they want me dead. There's a chance they may be seeking to use me as a pawn,” says Arthwr, his gaze meeting the captain's dead on. 

“And why would they want that?”

“You are from Dumnonia,” Arthwr says, chinning up. “What do you know about the politcs of its neighboughring kingdoms?”

Captain Cador huffs. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“Quite a lot,” Arthwr says. His shoulders broaden when he says, “My father was Uther.”

Cador bursts out laughing. “You're telling me you're a prince. You're the prince of the Albionenses!”

“Was,” Arthwr says. 

Cador's eyes sharpen, thin. “Then why would Romans be shooting arrows at you? Why would they be chasing you across the Mediterrenean?”

“Because,” says Arthwr, “they have everything to gain by it.”

Cador hums, then downright scoffs. “Your people are friendly with the Romans. The Romans protect them.”

“Were friendly,” Arthwr says, holding a hand up. “In the past. Then my uncle betrayed me and now Romans are shooting at me.”

“Why would they use you as a pawn?” Cador asks briskly.

Arthwr's smile is pained. “I'm an in for them, aren't I?”

“So you think they'd want to do what?”

“I can't be sure,” Arthwr says, his jaw tightening as he considers the question. “I think they'd like to challenge my uncle's rule in my name.”

“And you think they wouldn't put you back on your throne?”

“I don't think so, no,” Arthwr says, the tendons in his hands sticking out as he balls them into fists. “After all they proved how expendable I was to them when they shot me.”

Cador nods his head, as if that makes sense to him. “And what's stopping me from from changing tack, hailing that other vessel over there and selling you to them?”

“You're Dumnonian,” Arthwr says.

Cador doesn't say anything and for long moments Merlin feels certain he will countermander the orders he just gave and let the Roman ship overtake them. But he doesn't do that. He taps his boot on the deck, taps his chin and finally says, “Well, you can't say I didn't choose an adventurous life.”

With that he goes, ducking into a hatchway and disappearing from sight.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

On a ship you are at close quarters with other men all the time. From the moment you wake to the moment you finally rest your eyes you're brushing shoulders with the crew. Merlin doesn't hate it. He likes asking questions of its members, learning things from them, about their experience at sea, the hardships such a life as theirs entails. He enjoys making small talk. Most of the time he just listens though.

After a while he starts getting along with the sailors, even if he doesn't understand their jargon. And despite some mishaps Merlin occasions, they don't seem to take a dislike to him.

The forced conviviality however cuts down on Merlin and Arthur's privacy.

They don't kiss and don't touch when they're on deck. Even when they're alone there. They try and make no noise when they're in the cabin. This means they don't lie down on their berths when they want sex because they creak. And they don't lean against the wall because paritions are thin and noise carries. 

But sometimes at night when they're alone Merlin drops to his knees and strokes Arthwr's thighs. When Arthwr's strung up already, fist bitten and cock red, Merlin takes him in his mouth, dragging slick lips along his length, until he can taste the come oozing from the slit. He makes Arthwr come by sucking hard and fast then. 

On those occasions Arthwr breathes more quickly but otherwise makes no noise. Unlike him Merlin has to bite down on something so as not to be vocal. His body tight with need. he snaps his hips, closes his eyes and concentrates on being quiet. It works most of the time. Sometimes though he's louder and little stifled cries escape him.

No one's approached them to complain about the noise they make.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

The Roman ship doesn't catch up with them. Cador gives his crew a series of clever orders that put the wind in the Fides sail and the ships ploughs the water faster the moment the vessel is rigged set just so. At a speed of ten knots, they cover a large stretch of sea. Thanks to their newly acquired pace, they also lose sight of any enemy vessels. Only dolphins score the waters. They chase their bow wave, their forms dark against the foamy spray. Merlin heaves a sigh of relief. 

“That doesn't mean they're gone,” Arthwr says gently, joining him at the rail. “You know that, don't you?”

“I know,” Merlin says, letting his gaze settle on the far horizon, on the pink light colouring the line that separates water from sky. “I just... I just think you have to be a bit of an optimist sometimes.”

Arthwr's voice is tinged with fond laughter when he says, “Good philosophy.”

“When things look down you have to believe they'll get better.”

One of the dolphins they sighted jumps out of the water. It rises stark in the air, so close Merlin can almonst make out the sheen of its dark eyes. When it's reached its greatest elevation, the dolphin flips its tail up and dives again, disappearing beneath the keel.

“See, I choose to interpret that as a good omen.”

Neptune – though Merlin prefers to think Barinthus the true god of the sea – doesn't seem to see eye to eye with him on that score. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

The next day breaks grey and dreary, fog spreading low on the decks, thicker where the mast is. The headleand Merlin had been able to trace the contours of the night before has disappeared in a bank of mist. The sun only occasionally manages to spear through the coat of clouds and that only for brief moments. A wind picks up. It sings, then howls. Every hour seems to add strength to it. At first it only propels the Fides forward, hurling her into the waves, nearly launching her at her top speed. Then it starts to rock her.

The gale screams and whistles through the ropes, shakes the rigging swinging above their heads. Wails that sound like human laments rip the air, rising continually, never fading unless they head right into a trough. When they make it on the other side of one, purple lightning flashes and flames across sky. 

The force of the wind is a strain on the mast. The yardarm's end dips seaward at a frightening angle. Even though the crew try and keep the mainsail aligned, it doesn't quite work out. The ship gets battered by the gale as though it were rudderless. Cador barks a series of orders regarding main sail and jibs. The tweaking does little to improve the situation. Merlin can gauge the change in mood on the deck by observing the sailors' tightening expressions. Captain Cador patrols the deck, constantly checking and rechecking blocks, lines, rings and knots.

Merlin can taste the salt of the spray on his lips, on his tongue, feel the lash of the wind on his skin. Arthwr stands next to him leaning against the bulk of the deck-house. His face is as dark as the sky. 

“Do you think it's bad?” Merlin asks him.

“I'm not a seaman,” Arthwr says, the frown lines on his face not easing. “But I don't think this good weather to be in.”

As if to confirm that, a powerful jet of spray washes the deck-house clean, drenching both Merlin and Arthwr. “I do see what you mean.”

“Watch the lines!” Cador shouts to his crew. 

The activity on deck increases tenfold. 

Yards creak and groan. The wind howls through the rigging. The more it does so, the more the ship rolls and pitches, black water surging up, sweeping the deck clean again and again, almost carrying Merlin off his feet and overboard. 

Merlin isn't the only one in that condition. Several sailors surf the length of the main walkway chest down, all balance lost. One is nearly hurled into the sea, and is only spared because both Merlin and Arthwr make a grab for him before he's flung right off into the abyss. One catches hold of his hand, the other of his sodden clothing. Together they heave and drag him back to the deck house. “Are you all right?” Merlin asks, healing instincts coming to the fore. “Does anything hurt?”

“No, no, thank you,” the sailor says, pushing wet strands of hair out of his eyes. “I'm fine. Came close to croaking but I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” the sailor says with a grin that is a notch wan. “I've seen rough seas before.”

“So you're saying this is routine?” Arthwr asks. That's a question that Merlin has been wanting to ask for the past hour or so but hasn't dared because everyone appears quite busy. “That weather like this is normal?”

“For the season?” the sailor says as he picks himself up and dusts himself off. “Yeah. But usually we're not at sea when the bad season strikes.”

Arthwr nods grimly.

Merlin says, “Perhaps we could put into harbour?”

“The closest one would be Massilia in Narbonenses,“ says the sailor, “but even that's hours away.”

“So we've got to weather this,” Merlin says, as helpfully as he can.

“Yeah,” says the sailor. “Or flounder.”

A crash rends the sky. The crew looks around, their faces pale, a greenish cast to them, like that of algae. “Demetrios, stop entertaining the passengers and make yourself useful, you cur!” the bosun yells at the sailor Arthwr and Merlin are having their exchange with.

“Aye, sir,” the sailor says. Then to Arthwr and Merlin he says, “Sorry, and thanks again for the save.”

The storm increases in pitch. The crew fights to compensate but that doesn't come easy at all. Even with all hands on deck, repositioning the yard proves to be a tough job.

“Have the ropes out!” says Cador, instructing his men on how to tie them. 

The ship courses up and down the swell and for a moment she seems to have made it back on its course. But just as Merlin's stomach seems to stop plunging and then riding back to his mouth, new noises split the air. Thuds and thumps crack around them.

Merlin concentrates on the noise. It's different in quality, duller. “Is that? Is that the hull?” 

“I'm afraid it is,” Arthwr says, teeth gritted. Arthwr's expression never been so flinty before.

The captain himself is wearing a similar one. As the wind rages, he continues to make his way forward, towards the prow. He shouts orders, encourages his men, starts hauling ropes himself. 

Merlin tries to tamp down on his most pessimistic thoughts, but Cador's behaviour doesn't let him. If this was in any way ordinary the captain wouldn't be busying himself with menial work.

The Fides crests another wave. Merlin's tunic is by now drenched through. His hair is plastered to his skull and he can't see much else other than the water falling in sheets from the sky. He squints. The Fides is tossed into another swell. The deck lurches under Merlin's feet. Merlin slip-slides all the way aft, careening downwards at a dizzying speed. He shouts.

At the same time a streak of lightning strikes the mast, blinding bright. It splits it in two right at the centre, shredding the top half of the sail as the two chunks crash towards the deck and straight towards him. 

“Merlin!” Arthwr thunders and Merlin can see him run towards him before his view is obscured by the falling mast and yards of canvas fabric. Before rolling overboard, the mast crushes two seamen occupying the position Merlin had been in before sliding further towards the stern. They scream, a terribly long ululation that sounds hardly human. And then they moan, an anguished sound. Merlin himself can do nothing, because the pitching of the ship has thrust him so far forward all he can do is old onto the rail. Considering the angle the ship is tilted at, letting go would be madness. He'd be hurled overboard the very moment he tried to move.

As another bolt of lightning hits, the timbers shiver. This one turns everything a phosphorus white. The conflagration leaves Merlin's ears ringing so that he almost doesn't hear the sound the bulwarks make when a large portion of them is torn away by the gale. His fingers cramping, Merlin's grip on the rail becomes more tenuous. As drenched as he is, his body has got cold to the point he can't feel his fingers. His muscles too seem to suffer from this combination of strain and low temperature. His hands tremble and he knows he's about to let go. Salt water paints his lashes and smarts his eyes. 

It would be easy to release his hold, to let himself be plunged into the sea. But he can't. He can't because there's Arthwr to think about. He won't leave him, not till the very last moment. Not till he sits on his throne as king of his people.

Using the leverage of his knees he tries and scramble up. Because the deck is slippery, he slides back down. He curses. For his pains he gets cuts on his knees and along the back of his arms, wood splinters burrowing under his skin. Merlin heaves a breath. Drinks water. Tries again. Then Arthwr leans forward and grabs him by the shoulders. Merlin lands on deck at the same time a wave crashes upon it. It sweeps Arthwr right off deck, plunging him into the next big roller.

“Arthwr!” Merlin yells with all the power left in his lungs.

When he sees Arthwr's go down, waves crashing over him, Merlin dives too.

 

**** 

 

The water is freezing and nearly stops his lungs, makes them smaller. He breaks the surface with a gasp that sounds like his last one. 

The sky above churns grey and black, heavy clouds sitting at the horizon line. The heaving sea is charcoal. Rollers wash over his head, blind him, drive water down his gullet. The salt in it burns the roof of his mouth, his throat, makes him want to throw up. When he can breathe again without inhaling spray, he flails around, trying to locate Arthwr.

Froth layers churn, lacing wave crests that continue to grow in size and strength, combining with the rain. They hit his body with a force that Merlin has never known before. They drive him under the black water. 

Unable to breathe, he threshes helplessly, but the ocean knows no mercy, and thrusts him deeper and deeper. His lungs ache for air, for its touch. 

Above him tiny points of light sparkle like gems, penetrating the depths Merlin's sinking in. They trickle down through the dense mass of the sea. The light surrounds him, a bubble of brightness, and although he's concious of being still under water, he can think of nothing but the light. 

It penetrates to his heart, fills him with a burst of warmth, like the touch of a mother, like a caress he knows. He thinks up words in his native language, words he'd believed forgotten until they unfold in his mind, like a locket would upon opening. He doesn't know whether they're a prayer or a lullaby, a memory of things long past. But they soothe him, lend him power even when his heartbeat has lost its punch. 

The light source gradually grows to the size of his fist, and instead of shining through the water, it now beams down from the sky.

It's the sun, and he is on a cliff looking out to sea, standing at the very tip of a rocky outcrop plunging off in a sheer drop. He recognises this place. As a child he used to chase dragonflies up here. He would pursue them until there was ground underfoot, and then he'd watch them vault in the air, beating their wings against the breeze, floating free towards the coast of that country Merlin had been told lay on the other side of the ocean. It's warm up here on the edge of the headland. The sun kisses his cheek and his nose and his forehead, tempers his limbs to new strength.

He thrashes for the surface again, the roar of the water thundering in his ears.

He tries to locate Arthwr.

The sea is a churning mass of foam and grey. Merlin can't see a thing, let alone make out another human body. “Arthwr!” he shouts. “Arthwr!” he yells again till he's hoarse.

He can't see him. He can't.

The rain battering him from above, the seas coming at him, render him half blind. Merlin closes his eyes. He prays to Brigid, repeats incantations that taste like honey and mead. 

He sees her, walking on water, on a stretch of ocean Merlin knows, the one that surrounds the coasts of his childhood, those rocky green-clad promontories Merlin used to know so well.

She dances a reel on the water, her silvery dress meshing with it. Mermaids dance around her, hair flowing in the current. Their tresses are adorned with seashells, and crystals, crowns of seaweed, dotted with corals.

“Tell me where he is!” Merlin begs, knowing she will get what he means, who the person he so desperately needs to find is. “Please, help me save him.”

The words fall from Brigid's lips in bubbles, sound like the chant of seagulls and the soothing wind born in the south. “Look east.”

“Where, what!”

“Look towards sunrise,” Brigid says.

“How do I know where the east is!” Merlin says, his faith vacillating as his heart tears itself in pieces over the notion Arthwr is lost to him. 

“Look, truly look, Merlin,” Brigid says. “And you'll understand.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, no, I can't see,” he says, studying the charcoal depths that surround him, sea, sky, all alike. His limbs once again grow heavy, numb, an irresistible force dragging him downwards, to the bottom of an ocean bed that will be his grave too.

But then a shaft of light illuminates a corridor of water and in its glare Merlin recognises Arthwr. He's still alive, treading water. 

This lends Merlin new strength. He swims towards Arthwr, wills his muscles to work. But he's crawling against the current and he finds himself being pulled westwards. For every two feet of progress towards him, Merlin is dragged ten off course. It seems useless. But he must make it. There's no other option. He takes a second to breathe, drinks in big lungfuls, then goes under, streamlining before re-emerging and hitting a pace made up of swift strokes and brief pauses. He can't quite feel his body and he can't quite think, his thoughts gone dull. He can rely on instinct though. 

He must find Arthwr.

Merlin can't tell where he is without taking a moment to reconnoitre. As rain beats down on his head, blocking his vision, drops of it hitting him like pellets, he tries to locate Arthwr again. 

The swathe of sunshine that had highlighted his figure has dimmed to almost nothing, butr Merlin to spots Arthwr all the same. 

With new purpose, Merlin swims harder, pushing his arm down, fending water, kicking downward. It's mechanical, thoughtless. The wind blows against him, whipping the sea up to a frenzy. He struggles. 

His arms and legs feel like sap. His lungs have caught on fire. Choppy waves slow his progress. Several times he inhales and swallows water, its salty tang burning his throat, making breathing even more difficult. He refuses to dwell on it, on his heavy body and leaden limbs.

He doesn't know how much longer he can stay afloat, but that's not really something he ought to consider right now lest tiredness set in. Forward stroke, kick. He's ploughing on. 

He tries to let the waves bear him forwards without breaking out of the current, hoping they will somehow propel him in the direction he wants to go. He can correct the angle of his strokes later. He just needs to trust nature. To believe she isn't really alien to him, make himself one with her, have faith. When he stops to look again, he's considerably closer to Arthwr.

He can do it. He just needs to ask his body to give a little more. Only a little. He starts swimming again. This time he feels the downdraught pressure abate. He can advance with more ease. He stops, starts again, takes a deep breath and dives a little under water so he won't be blinded and battered by the driving rain. 

The eerie underwater silence fills his ears. He swims in the direction he remembers Arthwr being. So he knows where he's going, he keeps his eyes open in spite of the stinging touch of salt water. 

He's shrouded in a world of blue and spreading green, obsidian, grey. More velvet blue.

He re-emerges, looks this way and that. By swimming underwater he didn't get much off track. Arthwr is close. He shouts his name, waves. Arthwr does the same.

Merlin puts in a few more strokes and then he reaches for Arthwr, touches his shoulder. “Are you all right?” Merlin pants out.

“Tired,” says Arthwr. “Tired of treading water.”

Merlin locks one arm around his head, uses the other to keep them floating. “Can you guess where the coast is?” Merlin says, scanning the horizon. 

“No,” Arthwr says, his voice coarse with how much water he must have drunk. “I have no idea where the shore is.”

As a matter of fact, they're surrounded by heaving seas in all directions. 

In the distance they can see the bulk of the Fides, mastless, her hull rent in places. Little else. They signal the ship, but it's too far for her crew to spot them. It's useless anyway. Rudderless as she is, she could never make it back to them. Not in seas like this. They wouldn't attempt it. Captain Cador would never risk his crew to rescue them. As things stand, it's not even certain the Fides won't be scuppered by the next tall wave.

“We'll need to swim for shore,” Merlin says, breathless with the effort required to keep them afloat.

Arthwr spits water, blinks as though he's lost his focus. “We don't know where that is.”

“We have try, Arthwr,” Merlin says, breathing hard. “What other choice is there?”

Arthwr nods.

 

Merlin tows Arthwr along for long stretches so he can get his strength back. When he's recovered and Merlin can't work for two anymore, Merlin lets him swim solo, though he asks a hundred times whether's Arthwr's sure. He could try and bear them both.

"I was born on the sea," Merlin raps. "I'm the stronger swimmer."

“No,” Arthur says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Side by side they move westwards. It's not as if they're doing so for a reason. They have no inkling of the ship's last position, nor can they see any hint of coastline. It's palls of grey and blue all around. Nevertheless they swim on, the same as if they had a goal. They have to do that or surrender all hope.

Merlin isn't even trying to think anymore. He just means to keep going for as long as he has breath in his body. And when he doesn't...

He moves his arms in the water, first one then the other, making them descend in an arc that parts the waves ahead of him, throwing up a spray of foam as he desperately propels himself into the next trough. 

From time to time he makes a point of craning his head to make sure Arthwr's still there. He is, determinedly spashing forwards, keeping on top of the billows. But he's slowing down, his mouth open in an effort to breathe.

Merlin goes back for him. 

He's just made a grab for him when a giant swell slams against them.

Merlin's lungs fill with water. The current pounds at him from all sides, tumbles him so he doesn't know up from down. He can't see and can barely move his limbs. He's just being tossed about like a rag doll, freezing walls of water enveloping him. 

The thought that strikes him is that he doesn't want to drown, not when there's so much he's still got to do, helping Arthwr, making sure he gets his dues, his throne. They say that death by water is peaceful and that there is nothing to fear from it. Yet he does appeal to Brigid, does look into his core for his faith. He finds it. It blooms inside him like a fire.

He closes his eyes. He can see his home, the first one he shared with his mother as a boy. It's exactly as he remembers it: timber built, its rafted roof covered with sod and propped by oak posts set in widening circles. The orchard at its back is bathed in sunlight in summer and grey and dull in winter, the soil frozen solid when the month of Janus strikes.

He clings to the memories, makes them lull him. He imagines that he is still a child, before they came, before he was set on the path he took later in life. He pictures himself as a boy, running around the village's outskirts until his heart was in his mouth. He clearly recollects feeling incomparably alive. Fetter free. 

Other images come at him. His mother watching him. The summons, the white robes, the rowan staff, his awe, his fears. His mother saying goodbye, the way his heart twisted at that. Growing up, learning about the true spirit of his religion, being initiated. Their arrival. Meeting Gaius. Acquiring new knowledge from him, finding a mentor in him. Rome. Fitting in. First seeing Arthwr, his first genuine smile.

Then his thoughts dissipate to nothing and Merlin knows no more.

 

**** 

 

The early morning mist is clearing and the sun is beginning to put a sparkle to the water, casting dappled light across the algae-coated shoals lining the narrow strip of beach. The sun shines on the sand, bounces off it and dances off the waves, flashing against them in diamond ribbons. 

Merlin blinks, bats his lashes. The image doesn't change. He moves his hand. It leaves a trail across wet, grainy, dark sand. He shifts his leg. There's something solid underneath it. Now that he thinks about it, his face is being scratched raw by grains of... more sand. 

That means he's on a beach, that he didn't die out at sea. He survived the storm. He coughs. He still has vile tasting water in his mouth. It's scraped it raw. He spits, retches when that's not enough. He rasps out another cough, then calls himself ready to inspect his surroundings. He works himself onto his side so he can take in the world around him.

Sand, shingle, a stripe of beach that stretches eastwards towards a green clad limestone promontory. No other distinguishing features. No other way to tell where he is. To be quite honest, he's not even sure how much time has passed since he was in the water. Last he remembers he and Arthwr were...

Arthwr! Merlin totters upright, looks around. Shouts, “Arthwr,” and then again until he's hoarse and the despair in his voice makes it sound gritty and low and lost. 

He wanders the length of the beach, yelling Arthwr's name until he can't anymore, not prepared to think he's lost him at sea. Arthwr can't be dead. 

Merlin stumbles, crashes to his knees, the sand scraping his skin raw. The bite of the sting gives him new strength. He teeters forwards, cupping his mouth and calling Arthwr's name. His heart fractures in his chest, shrinks in size, subjects him to an avalanche of pain he can't really take. It's with the last thread of his voice that he says, “Arthwr.”

There's an answering moan and Merlin's heart triple beats in his chest. He tears forwards, wobbles on feet that are none too steady. He searches the beach, saying Arthwr's name over and over again. He combs the place, lurching left and right, falling, picking himself up, his limbs cold and heavy, and no support at all.

He finds Arthwr by a natural pool surrounded by spruce in the shape of low juniper shrubs and myrtle bushes. He kneels by his side, puts a hand on his shoulder.

Arthwr groans, opens his mouth, his eyes, red from all the salt in the sea, look wide and unfocused, but there's recognition in them. “Merlin,” he says, running his hand up his arm, kneading his shoulder, cupping his neck. “Merlin, you're--” He coughs. “Alive.”

“Yes,” Merlin smiles, his smile veiled by tears. “Of course I am. I'm too tough to kill.”

“I--” Arthwr's fingers sink deep into flesh, so Merlin's sure he'll bear the imprint of them. “I thought..”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, wiping at his nose with his arm. “Me too.”

Arthwr nods, says nothing. Then sits up, pulls him to him, and embraces him with both arms, crushing him to his chest and burying his nose in Merlin's neck. 

They stay like that for long breathless moments, then Merlin helps Arthwr up. “Any idea where we are?” he asks.

“None,” Arthwr says, studying their surroundings.

They're on a narrow strip of sand, a small beach carved out of limestone walls that jut out to sea. The bay is so narrow they can't see what's beyond it. “So what's the plan?”

“We'll need to find help,” Arthwr says. 

“Who'll give it to us though?” Merlin asks, patting his torn damp tunic. “All the money we had was on board the Fides.”

“And the weapons,” Arthwr acknowledges. “But we can't stay here. We need help.”

Merlin doesn't disagree. He's cold to the bone. Hungry. His legs can scarcely carry him. They do need assistance. He just doesn't know who'll give it to them. Still, it's a question better left for later. “We'll have to find a way inland.”

“Yes.” Hands on hips, Arthwr scans the far horizon. “That's the best plan.”

They start walking towards the furthest end of the beach. They can't scale the rock cliff, so they climb the shoals. They wade back in the bay, then find a steep path up the mountain. It meanders upwards in a winding course. At its base they stop. 

“Do you feel up to it?” Merlin asks Arthwr.

“Yes, of course,” Arthwr says, his shoulders set firmly. Then his eyes round and he adds, “You're the one who's not up to it, aren't you?”

“I'm cold,” Merlin says, rubbing his arms in an effort to put some warmth into them. “And it looks as though it's going to be colder up there.”

“I know,” Arthwr says, massaging his shoulders, his back, his fingers stealing back to his nape. “I know, but we need to seek shelter. We can't spend the night here.”

Merlin's eyes widen in horror at the thought. He's already freezing as is, he doesn't wish to find himself sleeping in the open. He dreams of a hearth fire though even a barn would do. Right now even the proximity of pigs sounds vastly appealing. “No, right, we can't. So up we go.”

The climb is tough. Even though the path they have found isn't so steep they have to actually climb a wall of rock, it's still challenging enough they have to negotiate it in sections, stopping from time to time for breath or to drink from the numerous natural springs they find. 

Around them is a wide expanse of pale rock, spare vegetation anchored to it. 

The cliffs stick out to sea, rearing up above it in teetering columns, towers and irregularly shaped boulders. If they turn around with the mountain to their back, they can still pick out the Mediterranean, looking placid, a peaceful deep blue, as if the storm never was. By toiling upwards, they come to a plateau, a narrow valley covered in gorse and with more mountains towering above it.

Here they pause awhile. There's a rocky overhang that shelters them from the wind and they sit cross-legged under this ledge. Once he's settled, it's as if his body has decided to give in all at once. 

When he closes his eyes all he can see are snowy landscapes, columns of ice, expanses of glacial white promising to welcome him in their embrace. 

His forehead feels clammy with a kind of sweat that somehow stays cold, like a pall threaded out of snow lying over his brow. His skull is starting to constrict. He can't stop the shivers that rake him though he does try and minimise them. His hands are cold, so he folds them. Breathing gets harder, as if the effort takes place too low in his chest.

Arthwr leans forward, touches the back of his hand to Merlin's forhead. “You're not well.” He fits his whole palm across Merlin's brow. “You're hot.”

“Should I feel flattered?” Merlin musters a smile. 

“You know what I meant,” Arthwr says, eyes large with concern. “You've got a fever.”

“Maybe,” Merlin says, because he can admit to that at least. “It'll go away soon. Once I'm warm and fed.”

Arthwr pushes off his feet. “I'll go find you something.”

“It can wait,” Merlin says, because he doesn't want Arthwr to go, not now. He doesn't even think he'd be capable of eating anything at this point. He's too focused on not shivering, not feeling as if his skin is covered in ice that will never melt. “Arthwr!”

But Arthwr doesn't listen and goes. Since he has no strength to follow, Merlin huddles against the rock wall behind him and hugs himself. Without Arthwr, it's easier to let himself tremble and moan. But it's not as easy to keep focused, awake. He tells himself that he needs to stay so or he'll become a burden for Arthwr, but it's so hard not to let himself go, close his eyes, and sink in strange imaginings.

They feature fanciful beasts that stand on their back paws, their fur dappled, yellow and black, their teeth sharp, their tongues red. They circle round him, only a fire between them, a sickle moon shining over them. The beasts jump and growl and show their fangs. 

The weight of a hand startles him. He opens his eyes. 

Arthwr crouches before him, a hand on his neck, the thumb sweeping back and forth. “I found some nuts and berries. You've got to eat.”

“No,” Merlin says, the back of his throat too raw for that. “No, not hungry. We should push on.”

“Not until I've put something into you.”

Merlin lolls his head. “Later, not now.”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, as he feeds him the berries, one by one, slow, his fingers brushing against Merlin's lips. “There, there. That's it.”

“'m not a child,” Merlin tells him, as he slowly sinks his teeth into the pulp of the fruit. “Can eat by myself.”

“Sure, yes,” Arthwr says, pushing another berry against the flat of his tongue. “Now chew.”

Merlin does, slowly and laboriously, though he can't taste the taste of his food. What he can feel is the weight of Arthwr's fingers on his temple, the fanning of his breath against his cheek, the bulk of him so close. He doesn't want to move, ever, but he knows he must.

“One more,” Arthwr says.

Merlin swallows the morsel quickly though it burns his throat. Then he stands and though he has to lean against the ledge behind him to achieve verticality, he finds he can manage just fine.

“Are you sure you can make it?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, and starts walking, more or less in a straight line.

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, “wrong direction. We have to go north.”

“North, right,” Merlin says, staggering the other way. 

They hike up the mountain path for several more hours. At points they have to outright climb the slopes ahead of them, vertical slabs of rock that offer little purchase. They need to be careful of where they put their feet, because ledges sometimes give, initiating small landslides or grit and brittle rock. 

When he remembers what he's at, Merlin glances behind him and surveys the spread of the valley behind him, the sheer drop below, half clothed in spruce, otherwise bare, the sea now barely discernible. As he observes the great distances around him, Merlin is hit by a sense of deep seated nausea. The world tilts at odd angles and he has to cling to the cliff so as not to fall to his death.

When they reach the top, the ground evens out. A stretch of spare country-side opens up before them. 

Merlin dodders forward. Arthwr catches him, wraps his arm around his shoulder, and supports him as they advance deeper into the country, his palm a comfort against Merlin's hip.

They walk miles and no villas or farms appear. From time to time Merlin slips into that other world where the fire burns and predators prowl. But Arthwr talks to him, recalls him to the here and now and Merlin takes in the vegetation around him, the flat, naked country. In some places it is very dry. Merlin can hardly make out a green leaf or a blade of grass. Though the rains around here must be heavy, as proved by the storm that nearly killed them, greenery doesn't seem to flourish here. 

The air smells like the sea and like herbs, like all coastal places. At length the wind-scoured landscape softens to green and purple hues. Tall canes whip in the wind. Vines stretch out in bare serrated rows. Olives plantations stand out, the trees short and fat, crookedly reaching for the sky. 

“Those are signs of civilisation,” Arthwr says, and Merlin distantly thinks that vineyards are a sign of human occupation. At the moment however he cares for nothing but his dreams of resting somewhere warm. He lets himself crumple against Arthwr's side. “That's good. That's good.”

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthwr says, taking more of his weight. “One last effort.”

They plod on till Merlin's numb both in body and in mind. His thoughts wander off too and he finds himself saying things he shouldn't, making utterances that are meant to be secret and sacred. Arthwr fortunately doesn't pay them heed, says, “Yes, yes, Merlin,” in the same tone you'd use to appease a child.

At last a small farmstead appears in the distance. It's surrounded by a small enclosure bordered on all sides by fields and pastures. Two rectangular houses of about thirty feet in length sit opposite each other in a packed dirt compound circled by a low wall. Large posts sink deep into the ground to secure the walls of the compound. The timber wall frames are lined with planks and thin branches covered with mud. The steeply pitched roofs is covered in daub. 

It looks so much like home – barring the brick, flat roofed, Roman style building squatting next to the first two -- that for long moments Merlin doesn't know where he is. 

Letting go of Merlin, Arthwr knocks on the door of the first building. 

Merlin blinks. When the door opens he sees his mother, her gentle smile, her dimples, her kind eyes. 

When he gains more clarity of vision, he sees a woman who might be of same diminutive size as his mother, but who looks completely different. She is a little bustier in the chest. Her hair is a rich mass of deep brown curls that falls to her waist. The shape and colour of her eyes are dissimilar too. Her expression is soft, like his mother's was, but wary. She doesn't hold the door wide open. She studies Arthwr with mistrust. “Yes?” she asks.

“My companion and I have been stranded during a storm,” Arthwr says in a voice he makes kind. 

“The storm from earlier?” she asks. “I heard the thunder.”

“Yes.” 

Arthwr says something else but Merlin doesn't catch it. It's all distorted to his ears. Arthwr's voice sounds vastly deeper as if it comes from the bowels of the earth; his vowels appear stretched beyond recognition.

The world spins around him and white flecks of light spangle across his field of vision. A sickening feeling rises in him, and a dull tattoo pounds on the inside of his skull.

Cold sweat trickles down his back in a chilly wash. Vertigo takes him; everything looks off its axis. The house lists to one side, Arthwr's features melt. 

The voice of the woman at the door sounds like a shriek, like the yell of the wind. He blinks. Darkness. Fire swells, throwing horrible and misshapen shadows on the grass he's standing on, predators dancing around the flames that have been burning all this while. The beasts yap, ready to leap at him, coming for his throat. 

The world comes back to him. Arthwr's face looks as big as the moon in the sky. “Merlin,” he says, in a high pitch that hurts Merlin's ear-drums. “Merlin!”

He flops back and lands on his back. Then everything goes black.

 

****

 

At first nothing but darkness surrounds him. He knows he's not dead because he feels pain: pounding in his head, solidifying in his chest, making his body heavy, freezing his extrimities. At times he's on fire and at other times he feels like he'll never be warm enough.

He knows he isn't dead because he hears voices.

“He will recover,” a sweet womanly voice says. “I'm sure.”

“How can you be sure?” Arthwr says, sounding distraught. “How can you tell!”

“I can't,” the woman responds. “Not for sure. But he's young, I can't but hope.”

Something cool lands on his brow. Merlin angles his face towards it, like a flower seeking sunlight. 

“I can't watch him die!” Arthwr says, his voice raw, low, so unlike his usual one Merlin feels for a moment lost, caught adrift. “I can't.”

The source of coolness is removed and Merlin whimpers. He tries to concentrate on the conversation going on around him. He wants to comfort Arthwr, tell him that he's going to be fine, and that if he isn't that doesn't mean Arthwr won't be. But that's as much clarity as he manages to gather before he's once again plunged into that world he doesn't like, the one haunted by feral beasts waiting to pounce. 

They prowl round him in circles, brushing against his legs, against his hand. He can smell their stench on their breath. It's the smell of decomposition made flesh. He tries to retreat, but finds himself standing in the centre of the circle all the same, the predators revolving around him. One draws blood, the pain of it is sharp and intense, lodged deep within him. It doesn't make sense because the wound is superficial. Then he remembers. Everything is absurd here because this isn't reality, He doesn't live in a land devoid of other human beings and haunted by feral animals.

He's on a journey with Arthwr. Arthwr who's there. Merlin heard him talking. So he must still be with him. He makes an effort to open his eyes, to communicate, but can't quite. At least he can't see the beasts anymore. He's no longer in the clearing, besieged by them. He's steeped in darkness, but can once again hear the voices of those around him. He's deeply concious of their presence.

He lets himself be comforted by the tones of the woman he doesn't know, by Arthwr's hand in his, by his weight sinking into the mattress next to him. Arthwr feels solid and strong, like a guardian deity. Merlin basks in his proximity. It etches the smile he can't wear on his face right onto his heart.

He sleeps then. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

She touches him constantly, fluffing his pillows, covering him with blankets, coarse ones that nevertheless nestle him in warmth, repositioning him so breathing is not a struggle. Her hands are gentle but have strength to them. They have calluses but are delicate. They're cool on his skin. But then again everything feels cool compared to him. She massages his aches away, dabs at his forehead when it brims over with sweat. He has a feeling she fusses over him but cannot tell why he thinks her solicitous. It's not as if he's awake to see it.

Sometimes during these fever-fogged days, he feels her cool hand on his forehead. He listens to her voice as she tells him tales. Tales of gods and mortals, tales of nature, and every day life. He can't say he can remember them down to the details. He's not listening like that, with his concious brain, but he's cradled by that sweet, steady, no-nonsense voice to the point he knows he's being cared for. The voice reassures him at some deep, primitive level, keeps the beasts at bay. Helps him not to dream.

Today Merlin's particularly aware of his carer's presence. He can make out almost each word she says. “And that's how summer wins against the gods of winter.”

He wants to tell her that he likes her story telling technique and to please continue, but she's interrupted by Arthwr. 

“Why are you doing this for him, Gwenwhyfar?” Arthwr asks. “We're strangers, after all.”

“I suppose I'm doing what I couldn't do for Lancelot.”

“I'm sorry,” Arthwr says. The floorboards creak as he moves. The mattress dips where he sinks next to Merlin. “I didn't mean for you to be reminded of your loss.”

“This is my chance,” Gwenhwyfar says. “Maybe I can save him even though I couldn't do anything for him.”

Someone gently strokes Merlin's hair. The hand is big, the fingers callused. It must be Arthwr. “I hope you can help him. It's selfish I know. But I...”

“I understand,” Gwenhwyfar says. “Believe me, I understand that kind of selfishness.”

“He's weak,” Arthwr says. “And his breathing is so laboured. I don't know. I'm not a physician, but I can tell these are not good signs.”

Gwenwhyfar sits on the bed Merlin's lying on, her weight making the mattress sough. “We must hope and believe he will get better.”

“I don't even dare hope.” Arthwr's voice breaks. “If I do let myself confide in the gods and am disappointed...”

Merlin tries to reach for Arthwr. His body is so heavy and sapped of strength, that it's a challenge from the get go, but he moves his hand across the smooth expanse of the blanket and hopes Arthwr will notice the gesture. Arthwr covers his hand with his.

“See,” Gwenhwyfar says. “He's fighting.”

“I don't want him to suffer,” Arthwr says, his voice as dry as a desert. “I want him to be fine. I want to be able to fix him the way he did me.” 

“I know, Arthwr, I know.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

His mind is still and passive, his body trapped into that other-world scored through by fire and looming shadows, the cackling of beasts a constant in his ears. Gnawing pain that sits both high and low in his chest is his frequent companion, never quite letting him slip into nothingness. His breathing gets ominously slower and raspy to his own ears. His throat burns and it feels as though there's a knot in his gullet. It makes swallowing a challenge. His skin is tight and hard around his bones, cracked, brittle. He's thirsty. 

Merlin cracks an eye open. He's in a small room, wood and stone for walls, feeble light coming in from a single window. He's lying on a bed covered in simple linens. Arthwr's sitting at the edge. When he realises Merlin's awake, he leans forward. “Merlin!” His eyes are wide with surprise, red rimmed. There are lines under them and his face looks ashen. If Merlin wasn't aware of being ill, he'd have said Arthwr was the sick one.

“Hi,” Merlin says, his voice husky with disuse. “Thirsty.”

“I'll get you some water,” Arthwr says, springing upright and leaving before Merlin can tell him to stay, that his presence is more important than some water. Merlin doesn't know how long he'll manage to stay conscious and enjoy it, so he wants Arthwr by his side. 

When Arthwr makes it back, he comes bearing a bowl Merlin supposes to be full with water and a thin linen strip.

With a gentleness Merlin doesn't necessarily associate with him, Arthwr sponges his cheeks and cracked lips, and slowly drips water onto his tongue. For a blissful moment Merlin knows only relief. It's perfect. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Is there anything else you need?” Arthwr asks, putting the bowl back down. “Food perhaps? It's been days since you had anything.”

“No.” Merlin shakes his head. He belatedly realises it's a very bad idea, for his skull thrums with pain the moment he does. “Arthwr, I think.” He coughs a cough lodged low in his chest. It's powerful, rheumy and it racks him. When he gets his breath back, he finishes, “I think I'm not well.”

“All the more reason,” Arthwr says, making to stand again before Merlin pulls him down. 

Merlin wets his lips, chasing the droplets of water still daubing the corners of his mouth. “I... I think there's something the matter with my lungs.” If his chest pain is anything to go by, there definitely is. “I have a fever. I'm not coherent most of the time, and I can hardly breathe.”

“All right, you're a little unwell,” Arthwr says, fussing with the blankets so they're covering Merlin up to the chin. “Tell me how to fix you?”

“I don't know how,” Merlin says, trying to regulate his painful breathing so he can at least say this, talk to Arthwr. It's the one thing he's sure he'll never tire of doing. “Willow bark maybe. I--” He coughs, shakes. Arthwr lifts him, rubs his back, helps him arrange his pillows. “Arthwr, it may...” He volleys out another cough. “It may not work.”

Arthwr squeezes his hand. “Describe the herbs I need and I'll find them for you.”

“Arthwr,” Merlin says, struggling to let the words out. “I'm not sure those herbs can do anything at this point. Let's not... let's not waste the time we have apart.”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, shaking his head, lips cast in a pout. “I will heal you. There's no other option. I don't want you to consider any other option.”

Merlin tells Arthwr what he needs to find, describes the type of tree he must get the bark from. When his voice falters and his throat is too dry and inflamed for him to continue speaking, he makes gestures, finishes by drawing the desired item on back of a piece of vellum. Arthwr swears he's understood, that he knows what he must fetch. “I'll soon be back with it,” he adds as he prepares a satchel in which to stash the herbs he must find. He borrows a knife from Gwenwhyfar, which he secures to his belt. “Hold in there.”

Merlin nods, waits for him to be gone before he lets the cough take him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

He sinks into a fitful sleep. Shadows lurk in it, but otherwise darkness blankets him completely. He knows someone's with him, just as he knows that person's not Arthwr. Instinctively, he asks for him. 

“He's not here,” Gwenwhyfar says, wiping the burning sweat from his brow. “He's gone to fetch medicine for you.”

“Mmm,” Merlin says, plastering his face against the cool fabric of his pillow case. “Arthwr.”

“He'll get it,” she says, “and you'll feel better.”

Merlin plunges back into his world of burning fire. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

Merlin wakes. His lungs feel small, reduced to nothing, like cinders after a fire. He can only wheeze, taste ashes.

The door opens. Arthwr walks in. “I have it.”

Gwenwhyfar leaves his bedside. “I'll prepare the potion.”

In her wake, the door shakes on its hinges.

Arthwr sits on his bed, bends over him, his face looming large in Merlin's field of vision. He smiles a tight smile. “Hello, how are you feeling?”

“Like a dead...” Merlin sucks in a breath before finishing his sentence. “Man.”

“Nonsense,” Arthwr says, trying to stretch his smile into a semblance of the real thing though he doesn't quite succeed. “You just like to laze about and be pampered. That's the truth of it.” Arthwr pinches his side. “You'll be feeling like better in a day or two.”

“Arthwr,” Merlin tries to put a word in edgewise, but Arthwr doesn't let him.

“Once you've swallowed the potion Gwenwhyfar has made, you'll be like new.”

Merlin wants to tell him that he doesn't think he will. He's too weak. And his lungs aren't working anymore. Judging by the way he croaks there's fluid in them. That's not good. If he were his own patient he would be trying to broach the bad news in a tactful way. “Arth--” Merlin's shaken by more of his cough. He pants as he tries to take in his next breath. “Arth--”

“Now now,” Arthwr says, pushing him firmly down when Merlin attempts to sit up. “Rest easy. Gwenwhyfar is coming with the potion.”

As if summoned by Arthwr's words, Gwenwhyfar appears on the threshold bearing a wooden cup. “I pestled it into a paste and diluted it with warm water.“ She holds up the vessel. “I hope I did it right.”

“It will have to work,” Arthwr says, taking the cup from Gwenwhyfar. 

Arthwr slips behind him on the bed, his back to the headboard and his chest to Merlin's back. He gently lifts Merlin's chin, and helps him drink, massaging his throat when Merlin nearly chokes with it. “There, there,” he says. 

The concoction relieves the parched feeling in his mouth and throat even though it doesn't do much to clear his head. Merlin stays dazed and in pain. The world around him shrinks. On the plus side, he's got a clear sense of Arthwr being there, of his presence, of his enveloping arms. He can smell his smell at his throat and taste his breath, fell the coarseness of the hair on his arm as he grips him. He wants to bask in all that is Arthwr, enjoy it for as long as he can. And if he's to die, he wants to die like this, in Arthwr's arms. He can think of no better place. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

He gets better. His brow doesn't burn with the same intensity as before, his head is clearer and he finds the strength to sit up. Arthwr feeds him the soup Gwenwhyfar made and starts talking about the future, about how Merlin's going to recover and how they'll start on the road again.

Merlin's chest aches, but he participates in Arthur's attempt at conversation. He doesn't promise he'll be well soon, but does listen to Arthwr's description of their future life. Arthwr's tales are fraught with adventures, but the future, as depicted by him, seems benign. It holds none of the fear that's characterised their journey north so far. In Arthwr's stories, Merlin is a loyal companion to an unflinching hero. On their missions, they perform feats, chase monsters Merlin's not quite sure exist, have fun.

He falls asleep to a vision of them together, traversing Gaul. He watches himself walk a woodland path tinged with russet, Arthwr at his side.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

Merlin's lungs are on fire. He's so choked for breath he has tears in his eyes. He feels faint. He coughs and coughs, his chest a-flame. He can't see, think, or even plead for the pain that racks his ribcage to stop. Everything inside him burns bright red. A poker prods his insides. He can't bear to sit, can't move much, is body as weighty as a marble slab, and just as unwieldy. He can only gasp and wheeze, his breath shallow. He's fighting for the littlest bit of air. His chest hurts. His lungs hurt. His throat is raw. His head pounds to a violent rhythm, like hammers on an anvil. He's tired and cold and exhausted from all the coughing he's doing. His muscles seize under the onslaught of too many contractions. He slips into bouts of unconsciousness that are both a balm to his aching body and a threat because during those moments he walks into a void so black there's no way out. 

He tries to cling to the waking moments, to reality, the voices he hears an anchor, but it's not easy.

“He's worsening,” Gwenwhyfar says, taking his hand. “He's not responsive anymore.”

“Impossible!” Arthwr says,. “He was getting better!”

“Arthwr, these things are unpredictable,” Gwenwhyfar says.

“I found the herbs!” Arthwr says, the floorboards yielding under him with a low whining sound. He must be marching to and fro. “I succeeded. He must recover.”

“Sometimes,” Gwenwhyfar says in a circumspect but sweet voice, “there's only so much we can do before we bow to nature.”

“You're saying that because your husband died,” snaps Arthwr.

Gwenhwyfar sucks in a breath.

There's a thud, the creak that goes with the bending of floorboards under a person's weight. “I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. That wasn't what I wanted to say at all. I apologise.”

Gwenhwyfar fetches a sigh. “I understand.”

Arthwr says something else, in a different tone, low and full of understanding, the kind of voice that soothes Merlin from the core every time he hears it, but Merlin doesn't catch the exact words because he loses consciousness.

Darkness comes for Merlin. It envelops him like a blanket, like a tide and there's nothing but blank space around him. He drifts. A glittering light blinds him. He blinks, steps towards it. It's warm and inviting, like a second sun, but it doesn't blister his skin. He wants to be at one with it.

“He's gone, Arthwr,” Gwenhwyfar says in a rush breath. “I'm afraid he's...”

“No,” Arthwr roars. “He can't be. No!” 

 

****

 

He's standing among raised stones. They're assembled in a rough circle, pointing their long shadow into the east, where the sun paints them with pink highlights. Eerie phantom shapes play along the curve of the mound the stones sit on. They reach for the sky like tapering fingers. Webs of mist swirl at their base, amid the grass decked with dew.

Merlin walks to the centre of the circle, bare feet brushing against swinging blades of grass. 

He walks to a flat stone, extending horizontally across two vertical ones. Brigid materialises on top of the arch. “Hello, Merlin.”

“My lady,” Merlin says, bowing his head. 

“Welcome to the birthplace of the world,” she says, sweeping her arms round.

Merlin looks, the knoll he's on is lush with green; the stones look solid as they taper upwards towards a sky that's milky with soft clouds. This place has so much in common with the land of his birth it could be it. Yet Merlin knows he's never been here before, not even in his visions. “Am I dead?” he asks, confusion moving him. He's particularly unclear as to why he doesn't hurt anymore if he isn't. “Because I don't... and this...”

“You are if you want to be,” Brigid tells him, her expression serene. “You're not if you don't want to be.”

“I don't understand,” Merlin says, trying to sort this out in spite of the fog in his brain. “How can I be even allowed to choose?”

“Because you're Emrys.”

Merlin cocks his head. “What does that mean?”

“Your spirit is eternal,” Brigid says, “it is at one with the earth and breathes with its power.”

“My spirit?” Merlin says, the words not quite making sense. “You mean my healing powers?”

“I mean your magic, Merlin,” Brigid says. “The earth's magic shines in you and is you.”

“I'm only a physician,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “It's impossible.”

“Those who say you're only a physician aren't the same people who raised you,” Brigid says. “Or those who chose you for a higher purpose.”

“Those who chose...” Merlin breathes out. “Oh.”

“Yes, indeed,” Brigid says. “Those who are devoted to me chose you.”

“So what should I do now?” Merlin asks, looking around the clearing. “This isn't my world, is it?”

“It is as much your world as the one you were born in is,” Brigid says, widening her arms to encompass the standing stones circle. “But if you want to go back to the place you left behind, then open your heart, unlock your true powers.”

“I don't understand.”

Brigid touches his chest, her palm resting flat on it. “Look,” she says, holding his beating heart, golden and radiating light that washes the whole clearing into a shock of whiteness. “Look.”

 

~~~~

 

A sob. Someone bending over him, brushing their lips across his forehead.

Merlin takes a breath, another, fills his lungs with an intoxicating mouthful of blissful oxygen. 

“Arthwr,” Gwenwhyfar says, cupping her mouth. “Gods, I think he's... Arthwr, I think he's alive.”

“What?” Arthwr says, sitting back, and blinking. “I-- he...” 

Merlin meets Arthwr's eyes, croaks a weak, “Hello.”

Arthwr rounds his eyes, lets his mouth settle into an o of surprise, then peals out a bellow of laughter and lifts him so Merlin's sitting up. Now that Merlin's in this position, Arthwr hugs him tight. “I was so sure... You stopped... And I was certain.”

“You weren't wrong,” Merlin says, recollecting what happened in the stone circle. It's already a hazy memory, blurring at the edges, but still a key one to him. “I was dead, but my magic brought me back.”

Arthwr pushes him back by the shoulder, putting some distance between their bodies. “Merlin, you...” He laughs a little hysterically. “It's impossible. You can't have been dead.”

“But I was,” Merlin insists, because that's the one clear recollection he has, being as good as gone, in that other world that's certainly not this one. Pluse, Brigid told him and he trusts her implicitly, has ever since he devoted himself to her. “But my magic...”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, rubbing circles around his temple. “You're unwell. You don't know what your talking about.”

“But--”

“There's no such thing as magic,” Arthwr says with a gentleness that does more to deflate Merlin than outright hostility would. “The potion did its work. That's all.”

“But--”

Arthwr pushes Merlin against the mound of pillows hollowing out behind his back. “You should rest. You're ill. You're confused.”

Merlin doesn't feel ill. He can breathe just fine and energy thrums up and down his body. “Arthwr, I--”

“Listen to me,” Arthwr says, standing. “Sleep. The confusion will clear once you've recuperated.”

Arthwr and Gwenwhyfar leave the room.

 

~~~~ 

 

Despite being healed, Merlin does tire from time to time. To recuperate he takes long naps that while away whole afternoons. Invariably, his eyelids start feeling heavier when the light gets the colour of amber, inviting sleep. Though his energy is nearly back at its usual levels, rest comes easy then, restoring aches and pains, slowly making of his ailment a thing of the past. The rheumy phlegm that sat in his chest is the first to go, followed by the fever and the cough. The last to go is the muscle soreness, but that's something he can easily live with.

Gwenwhyfar tends to him with great patience. She cooks for him, tucks him in when Merlin grows weary, livens up his recovery with stories, fables and songs. She's a blessing and warms his heart. The only downside may be her excessive level-headedness, her lack of faith. She swears up and down that his recovery is miraculous, but when Merlin tries and tells her that it's magic that brought it about him she refuses to believe him. 

She always retires to the other room when Merlin broaches the subject. She does so today as well. From his own Merlin can overhear her speaking to Arthwr, though she's careful to use very low voice. He can't make out what they're saying, but Merlin's sure they're talking about him. They likely think Merlin's illness has eaten away at his intellect. He can't quite bear the thought they might harbour this notion, so he steals from his bed to get some manner of confirmation. Blanket around his shoulders against the chill, he slinks down the passageway and stops shy of the door leading into the main room. He hides in a corner, like a child about to do some mischief, and listens to what Gwenwhyfar and Arthwr are saying.

“Don't worry,” Gwenhwyfar says, “this delusion will go away the moment he's recovered.”

“He sounded so certain,” Arthwr says, “I'm afraid his illness has affeted him more deeply than I thought. His reason may be impaired.”

Merlin sucks in a breath, tries not to make any noise.

“I'm sure that's not the case,” Gwenwhyfar says, walking into view with a pitcher in her hand. “I'm positive he'll get better. Just give him time. In a few weeks he'll be as good as new.”

“I'll never give him up, not in any circumstance, not even if he's gone crazy,” Arthwr says, clearly addressing what must be his own fear rather than his companion's words.

“I doubt he has,” Gwenhwyfar says in a comforting tone. “As I said, resting for a while will probably cure him of all ailments.”

“About that,” Arthwr says, stepping forwards so that Merlin can see a slice of his profile. “We can't possibly stay here much longer, partaking of your food and sleeping under your roof without contributing anything.”

“I know you have nothing, Arthwr,” Gwenwhyfar says with a sigh. She pours the steaming water over a cupola of dirty bowls and sets to cleaning them. “You were caught in a storm.”

“That doesn't mean I shouldn't do something to repay your kindness.”

Gwenhwyfar wipes at her brow with her sleeve, her hands covered in suds. “Please don't even mention it. I was happy 

Arthwr steps forwards and towards her, puts his hand on her arm. “You're a widower; you need help.”

Gwenwhyfar's face stills. “I don't need any help. I managed quite well this past year.”

“I know,” Arthwr says softly. “I can see that. But that doesn't mean I should profit by that. I'll help you. You said you have fields left untended, olive groves. I'll work them.”

“You're no farmer,” Gwenwhyfar says with a snort that is nevertheless not unkind. “I can tell that.”

“I know how to work hard,” Arthwr says, drawing his legs together so he's standing taller. “A few fallow fields won't be the death of me.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” Gwenwhyfar says, chuckling, her hand covering her mouth as she gives Arthwr an uncertain once over. “But I'll let you do it. I'll pay you for your work of course.”

“That's ridiculous!” Arthwr says. “I already owe you so much.”

“But you'll be putting in some back-breaking work,” Gwenwhyfar says with a twitch of her eyebrow. “Believe me, it wouldn't be fair of me not to pay you.”

“But you offered us shelter...”

“Which comes free,” says Gwenwhyfar with a little shrug. “I have plenty of space.”

“Surely, Merlin and I used up your food.” Arthwr goes back to harping on that. He sounds to Merlin as though he's convinced he made the point that's going to win him the argument. “Feeding us surely cost you.”

“You and Merlin barely ate anything,” Gwenwhyfar says with a little more heat than before, as if she wants to cut this conversation short. “I told you. I'm paying you and that's my last word on it.”

Arthwr looks as if he wants to object further, and he's probably about to, but Merlin feels weak about the legs. The long days of disuse must have weakened him despite his magic healing him. So instead of eavesdropping further, he retreats to his bedroom and lies down, telling himself he'll talk to Arthwr about helping with the manual work once he gets to him. He falls asleep before he can think up the words.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Arthwr starts working on the farm the following day. He goes to the outer fields and only returns by nightfall. Though he acts tough, he comes back wearied to the bone, Merlin can tell. He winces when he flexes his hands, groans when he puts himself to sleep and overall seems to have developed a new understanding of what it means to be a farmer. He never complains with Gwenwhyfar, not even when his hands bleed and his muscles pull, but Merlin can tell this is something he wouldn't even remotely be doing if it wasn't for the obligation he's under.

Merlin tells him he wants to work too, but Arthwr objects to that. He says Merlin's too weak, that he nearly died, that he can't exert himself. It would be reckless. Merlin points out that he's alright to cope with a little effort. He mentions his magic and its bolstering powers.

Arthwr takes that as a sign Merlin's still unwell.

Right, Arthwr doesn't believe in magic, thinks Merlin's raving. He eventually gives up on the farming score. Merlin's too stubborn to sit back and watch Arthur work on his behalf. So they agree Merlin will start work on the fields as soon as Arthwr believes he's really up for it. He doesn't yield on the other issue.

Merlin picks his brain so he can find a way to make Arthwr see he's telling the truth. But Arthwr staunchly refuses to. For all that he believes in the gods of his pantheon and the power of prayer, he baulks at the the thought of magic, of a man being its vessel. 

Yet to Merlin it makes perfect sense. It's as though he has come to a new understanding of himself. The magic has thrown light over so many aspects of his life, answers questions he's had for some time: whyhis prayers seem to be easily answered, why he was lucky enought to survive one on one combat when he is no soldier, why material objects bend themselves to his will. 

In an effort to better comprhehend them, he tests his powers. He finds that they are a thing of the mind, that if he believes in them he can put them to better use. Confidence is key. He excercises his magic the way he would muscles; he does so by shifting objects with the power of his mind, slowing time, revitilising dying plants. Gwenwhyfar's roses bloom in November. The desiccated rosemery branches framing his window become fresh sprigs.

He slowly realises he's done all these things before, except he did them unconsciously, without suspecting he was. His healing powers, his herbalist skills, his self defence mechanisims are all by byproducts of his magic.

So Merlin hones his skills. He means to show his feats off to Arthwr too. Actually, he means to give him such incontrovertible proof Merlin's a sorcerer Arthwr will have to either doubt his own senses or believe him. And yet when the time comes for Merlin to do magic in front of him he baulks.

Arthwr's words have cut deep and he fears that he won't be able to perform in front of such a sceptical audience. Besides, what if his powers betray him right when he's trying to persuade Arthwr they're real?

Arthwr would give up on him, think him completely unhinged. He must choose the right moment.

 

****

 

Arthwr works from day break till dawn. As a result, his skin aquires a tan, though the sun gets waner and waner. His hands harden and his face gets a little pinched, the fine line of his bone structure showing, though his muscles bulge more than before.

His frame widens a little, in the reach of his shoulders especially, and his biceps fill up even more than before. There's a new, rough solidity to Arthwr that tastes of the earth, of the brown soil that burrows under his nails. 

Merlin worries he's taken too much upon himself, but Arthwr shrugs his fatigue off and acts as though he's not weary. There's little Merlin can say to that without accusing Arthwr of lying about being fine with the menial work. Arthwr has his pride and he wouldn't accept that. Besides, Merlin's mother farmed after all. If it was good enough for her, if she was strong enough to, he must let Arthwr. Still, Merlin doesn't rest easy knowing that he's lying in bed – or sitting by the hearth in the kitchen where Gwenwhyfar busies herself – while Arthwr toils.

At first he tries to help out Gwenwhyfar, assisting her in the preparation of meals or in the salting of fish and meat. Sometimes he pickles vegetables. He cuts them in small slips he dips into viengar. He's conscentious, but somehow his vegetable strips look too roughly chopped compared to Gwenwhyfar's. He vows to get better, but one day Gwenwhyfar snaps around and says, “Merlin, I thank you for your help, but you're a disaster in the kitchen.”

“Oh,” Merlin breathes out.

After weeks spent convalescing, Merlin finally joins Arthwr in the fields. Though he's not as strong as Arthwr, he's more used to the rhythms of the earth than he is. He doesn't exactly take to farming like a fish, but he makes do.

They mean to leave Southern Narboneses after they've worked enough to repay Gwenwhyfar for putting them up, but winter sets in, and the roads become close to impassable. Merlin says they should try them all the same, but Arthwr shakes his head and states he won't endanger Merlin again. “Not after,” he says, and trails off, his lips and brow pinched. 

“I'm fine now,” Merlin protests, but Arthur shakes his head.

“I'm not risking your life,” Arthwr says, clipped, final. “My throne can wait. And if it can't... I'm not putting it ahead of human life.”

When Arthwr puts it like that, there's no opposing him. 

The weather sets to frost. Chill winds sweep the farm and rattle the windows. Trees shed their leaves. They lie dormant as winter tightens its grip on nature. Thorn bushes crust with ice, the furrows in the fields sharpen. The ground becomes hard, like a crust, a carapace, a fine sheen of frozen sludge covering it. Sometimes leaves try to poke through, but the soil is mostly bare now, unbreakable, yielding nothing. The wind howls; gales coming in from the sea rake the coast. Darkness sets in by late afternoon, foreshortening their days. It's a penetrating kind of obscurity, only rarely illuminated by bright pinpricks of cold starlight. 

During these long evenings they sit in front of the hearth, huddled by the fire, caressed by its leaping warmth.

Gwenwhyfar is a good companion. When they most need it, she's talkative, open and sunny. When Merlin and Arthwr need to nurse the wounds of their long journey, she's silent, sensitive to mood shifts, knowing how to ease their sombrest states of mind with an aptly timed, earnest smile. 

With so much time at their disposal, which the reduction in farm activities brings about, they get to know each other fairly well, at least enough to gauge each other's character. 

They develop habits and small rituals too. 

When the nights draw in, they sit by the fire and swap stories. Gwenwhyfar tells them about her father the blacksmith, about the love she has for the coast. She had an uncle who was a fisherman. It was him who taught her about living along the Calanques, farming on land whose yield is much poorer than that of other areas further inland. She seldom mentions her husband. But both Arthur and Merlin know she holds him dear, wears his token, a bright medallion, right on her heart. She says she can feel him when she does.

Since Gwenwhyfar is so communicative Arthwr and Merlin share stories about their past. 

Merlin tells his audience about his childhood memories, talks about growing up close to the sea, about the rites tied to the land of his birth. Though he doesn't touch upon the religion of his people – and most particularly his – he mentions his recollections of the feast of Imbolc. 

Imbolc is Brigid's feast and comes about when blackthorn blooms. Candles and hearthfires burn inside just like the bonfires outside do. Food is laid out on long tables, on trestles, even on doorsteps. The words of soothsayers ring out on the wind and lambs are born. The faithful parade Brigid's effigy from house to house, waiting for her, inviting her in their homes. Beds would be made for her and provisions laid out. Only the best of the best for her, for the power her touch and her prayers bestows is great indeed. 

He doesn't tell Arthwr and Gwenwhyfar this, but Merlin used to be unable to sleep when the imbolc festival was on. He'd be fraught with excitment, shaking with it, waiting and hoping to see her ghosting around his homestead. She never came. She only comes when she wants to, outside of festivals. That too is something Merlin keeps to himself. There are some secrets that are never meant to be uttered, a secret of words, of a man's religion.

Arthwr shares titbits about his past too. He reveals that when he turned eleven he became more than a little impatient to join the ranks of his kingdom's warriors. Every time he asked to be allowed into the group, his elders said he wasn't old enough to start his training yet. They kept telling him he'd have to wait till he'd get taller, bigger. Arthwr asked how tall. The elders showed him a mark they'd made on the door of the great hall. One of them pointed his sword to it. 

“You must be that tall before you're allowed to train with the other young men.”

“I bet you contested the point,” Merlin says, revelling in Arthwr's blush. 

Gwenwhyfar asks, “What happened? When did they let you join?”

“A considerable while later, at least in my eyes, ” Arthwr says, sheepishly raising his shoulders. “Every night I'd come and stand by that mark. I would ask a friend to tell me whether I'd made it, if I was tall enough.”

Gwenwhyfar clamps her hand to her mouth. “Every night?” she says laughing incredulously. “For how long?”

“A whole year,” Arthwr says. “I'm afraid I made poor Leon check every night for a year.”

“You didn't,” Gwenwhyfar says, her voice edged with laughter, incredulity.

“I'm pretty sure he did,” Merlin says, laughing. “It fits with his personality.”

Arthwr ducks his head, a spattering of colour dusts his cheeks, his neck. “Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin shakes off Arthwr's attempt to ruffle his hair. It's already grown too long as is. “ Why, because I've got you down pat?”

“No, nitwit,” Arthwr says, laughing long and hard. “Because you're off base.”

Despite the cold that settles in their bones, their evenings pass pleasantly, harmoniously. Everything's not so blissful all of the time however. Even though they get along, there are hardships that must be faced. During the harshest days they stay in the farmstead, hardly poking their noses outside. It's cold enough in the house, they don't wish to venture where the temperatures drop lower.

But at one point they're compelled to. On one of their forays outside, they find out that frost hangs in dagger-like points from the casement of the barn. Within the temperature is perhaps harsher than it is out on the fields themselves. Two of the cows have died and and two others look like they're on the fast track to. The calves have become scrawny things as well. 

Knowing they won't survive the winter if they stay where they are, they move the calves into the house, where there's a fire. As a result, their living quarters shrink to a quarter their size and the house takes to smelling like a barn. But it's a sacrifice they are all willingly make. First because the animals look pitiful with their diminished size and meagre bodies. Secondly because they're part and parcel of Gwenwhyfar's livelihood. She won't fare well without them. One can get used to the smell when there's a reason to.

With the animals to feed and care for, their days are spent tending to them, fattening them up, curing their ailments, providing for them. Merlin gets friendly with a calf he calls Gaius. Gaius lows and flicks his ears when he sees Merlin. At this sign of recognition, Merlin's lips invariably stretch into a smile.

Basing their lives around simple patterns made of work and rest, they live communally, help each other, manage the small day to day jobs. They find a rhythm, one that carries them through the longest nights, the loneliest winter days, when no wayfarer attempts the roads, when nobody ventures out and knocks on their door, when you'd almost believe the rest of humanity doesn't exist.

In this fashion, they weather the harshest frosts and the worst storms. Until at last, the days get longer once again and flowers start to bloom in the meadows. The ice thaws, flooding the fields with water, making them pregnant with it. Thanks to the improved weather conditions, they can throw open the windows and smell the fragrant smell of new earth. 

When it's warm enough they can shed the three blankets they're huddled under, Arthwr tells Gwenwhyfar, “Spring is upon us.”

“I know,” Gwenwhyfar says, opening a casement and breathing in the much more fragrant air, ripe with the smell of flowers. “It makes my heart glad.”

“We'll be going soon,” Arthwr says, nodding to Merlin.

“I don't want--,” Gwenwhyfar says, leaning her head against the window frame. “You've made a difference.” She hesitates, straightens, turns around so her back's to the window, her hands behind her. “Must you continue on with your journey?” She looks to Merlin. Merlin has a feeling she does because she thinks him the more easily persuadable of the two. “I don't know where you're going, but you risked your lives once already. Wouldn't staying be easier?”

Arthwr steps forwards, takes Gwenwhyfar's hands in his. “We must. I have a duty. If it didn't exist, then perhaps...”

Gwenwhyfar exhales, “I understand.”

They don't leave immediately. Merlin suggests they shouldn't both because the don't want to wean themselves off Gwenwhyfar too abruptly and hurt her in the bargain and because they need time to buy provisions for their journey. 

Thanks to their work on the farm and their share on the sale of Gwenwhyfar's crop – which she insists upon –, they're in the position to be able to buy rations and new weapons for the journey.

Gwenwhyfar advises them to go see a dear relative of her father's, who took over his blacksmithing business from him. 

Gwenwhyfar's relative is a big burly man with a face that's not unkind though it's weathered by age. When they tell him   
Gwenwhyfar sent them, the man, Leodagrance, grins and slaps them both on the back. 

“Come in, come in,” he then promptly adds. He doesn't shepherd them into the forge, but into his kitchen first. He pours them wine from a tall earthen jug and places the cups on the long table he sits them at. “I discuss business in my kitchen when it's friends I'm dealing with,” he says.

Merlin and Arthwr heartily accept, for the wine smells like berries and they've walked a long way to visit the blacksmith. They can't envisage anything better to quench their thirst. Merlin doesn't think he's ever tasted any wine more excellent than this, not ever at the Emperor's courtr. “This is fantastic,” he says, smacking his lips so he catch the last of the taste on them.

“From my daughter's own farm, ten miles north of Massilia,” says Leodegrance. “They're selling this wine all over Gaul and Hispania, down to Baetica even.”

“If there's a wine that should be traded abroad,” Merlin says, lifting his cup. “This is it.”

“I'm glad you find it so,” says Leodagrance, lifting his head with pride. 

“Now for your weapons. What kind are you looking for?” Leodegrance appraises them slowly as though by virtue of his study he'll be able to tell what sort of gear they'll need.

“We're about to embark on a long and possibly perilous journey,” Arthwr says, placing both hands flat on the table. “We don't need show weapons, but sturdy, sensible ones.”

“How do you feel about the gladi of the legions?” asks Leodagrance, one of his eyebrows tipped up so it nearly meets his hairline.

“They're good weapons,” Arthwr says, “but not the kind I'm used to. I'm looking for something more balanced, lighter, sharper.”

“Then I think I have the weapon for you.”

Leodagrance shows them into the forge. It's housed in a stone outbuilding. It has a vice and anvil; several types of steel scrap lean against the wall in laminae, thin sheets of them that look frail, like parchment rather than metal. 

The place is choking with tools that lie seemingly haphazardly everywhere. There are clinkers and different sets of bellows. There's a tool box sitting on a bench, and differently sized hammers hang from the wall. The fire in the hearth has been fanned to a fierce heat, enough to shape red hot metal into a myriad forms, and enough to confuse Merlin's senses to the point he believes it's summer and not early spring. 

The blacksmith shows Merlin and Arthwr a long sword he keeps stashed in an embossed chest. He cradles the blade in both hands, the flat side up. 

“This is perfect for you,” says Leodegrance, showing off the weapon's heft and weight. “A legionary ordered it but never turned up to pick it up. He designed it himself. It's similar to the swords warriors from Germania use, longer in reach than a gladius. It's made with steel from Britannia.”

“Britannia,” Arthwr breathes out, taking the sword, weighing it in his hands before performing a few trial lunges. “It's perfect.”

“It's a weapon the leaders of the Batavi wear proudly,” says Leodegrance. “It's fit for a true warrior.”

“That I can see,” Arthwr says, flexing his sword arm, trying out those moves he can pull off in the confined space of the forge. “This is hard, tempered steel. A blade sharp enough to breach its way through a wall of men.”

“Indeed,” says Leodegrance.

“Caledfwlch,” Arthwr says, his utterance just a little bit breathless. 

“That's what my people would call such a weapon.”

“He's named it,” Merlin says with a grin. “I think that's a sign he'll take it.”

“Indeed I will,” Arthur says, smiling wide at Merlin. He keeps trying moves with the sword, proof that he's already sold on it.

As Arthwr makes more purchases -- a dagger, a sword for Merlin, sheaths – Merlin bestows a blessing on Arthwr's sword. The blade glints blue, then dazzling silver, before the shimmer dies down to nothing. Once Merlin would have called his utterance a prayer, now he knows the true purpose of his words, his powers. He vows to put them at Arthwr's service and to find a way to make Arthwr see his magic is true. It might not be today, but the time will come. 

“That'll be enough,” says Arthwr. “We ought to travel light.”

The pay for the weapons, ten pieces of silver for the whole lot. It's a good price for such good items, but it does put a dent to their savings. “Thank you for your custom,” says Leodagrance. 

“Thank you for providing us with such excellent weaponry,” Arthwr says.

They say goodbye over a handshake.

Parting from Gwenwhyfar isn't as easy. She has tears in her eyes. She embraces Arthwr first, Merlin second. There's strength in her grip. “Look after yourselves,” she says. “I didn't help saving you so you could die travelling Gaul.”

“I'll be prudent,” Merlin promises. “And I'll look after Arthwr too.”

“I don't doubt you will,” she says, squeezing his elbows as she looks up in his eyes. “Just don't forget to take care of yourself.”

“I won't,” he says, looking to Arthwr. He's shifting their packs from shoulder to shoulder. “But I'll watch over Arthwr too.”

Gwenwhyfar sighs. “I don't think you got me. But then again I don't really think you'll ever change.”

Merlin smiles crookedly. That's all he knows how to do.

They leave on a rather sunny day in midspring.  
*****

 

They walk northwards. The road opens up before them and they follow it, parcelling out the distance they cover each day. They sleep in the open for the most part, drowsing in clearings and in thick tree bowers, a blanket keeping the cold at bay, their world that of the forest. They eat of its products; they look to it for shelter. Greenery surrounds them.

From time to time they run into small villages and market towns. When they do, they stop there. They do so partly to rest their limbs in farmsteads or taversn, where they can rent a room after weeks of sleeping rough, and partly to trade information with the outside world, get news about what the Romans are doing both in Gaul and in Rome. The intelligence they gather is scant, but that comes as no surprise considering they're avoiding the bigger towns and provincial outposts. Out in the country nobody cares about the capital's politics, about the doings of the Emperor and his wife, his advisors and generals. When they stay overnight, they buy provisions for their voyage in the shape of salted meat and fish, bread, and other light edibles that can last them a while. 

They have sex when they can. When other people are asleep and they're not too tired from the road. They do it in silence, but their touch is as frantic as it would be if they were well rested. They catch each other's sobs on their lips, smother them in kisses. They stroke each other into mute completion, cradling each other's shivering bodies, till the tremors subside and they lie clammy and panting on sticky sheets. 

Merlin finds those moments as worthy or remembrance as any other in their relationship. Perhaps these cut deeper into him, etch themselves more profoundly onto his heart because they come after they've nearly lost each other. 

After watching Arthwr nearly drown, after nearly dying himself, he treasures each moment, does so in a much more conscious way than before. Nowadays he seeks to make new memories of Arthwr against the perils to come. 

Their time on the road is not always easy. Sometimes they struggle with fatigue, with the challenges of the path ahead, the long road that seems to always ceaselessly unravel before them.

Sometimes their path cuts across mountains, the terrain steep, a challenge. Sometimes they tramp across valleys, flat and carpeted with flowers. At times they have to negotiate dark bogs and ford fast churning rivers, made fat with summer rains. They pass Divona and Segodunum, Gergovia and Bibracte.

They take in the different customs of each city, the traditions that apply to each location, the various way the tongues of their inhabitants form themselves around the Latin words they nowadays use.

The different tribes have their own customs, going back to times that predate the Romans by hundreds of years. Some of their ways aren't too dissimilar to those of Merlin's people, but these other Gauls seem to have become more Roman in their ways than the Veneli ever did. 

They still retain the sayings and superstitions typical of their traditions, but in all other ways they act and speak like Romans. They use the same products, adopt the same tools, farm and trade like the people of Italy. They worship the same gods, though the names of the old ones, the name of the deities the priests and priestesses of old venerated are still on their lips, except now they've come to define the tutelary gods of the Romans. 

Merlin's heart sinks a little bit every time he hears that. He hopes the Veneli haven't changed. He hopes they haven't bowed down to Rome to the point of erasing their own pride, their own secret language, their own mores. He wishes the name of Brigid, and the other spirits of the earth, won't get lost to time.

When they run out of money they take up a job, as day-labourers on farms, as shepherds, as masons, or hired journeymen. 

They stay a month here and a month there, till high summer breaks upon them. They spend august on a farm not far from Alesia, helping the farmstead owner take in his crop. It's hard work, back-breaking work. They feel it in their hands and their spines, in the way their limbs ache long after their day of toil is over. But it's also the kind of activity that makes them stronger, that teaches their bodies to weather anything.

They make a fair amount of money. It lasts them months until they have to stop again, both because the bad season is oncoming and because their resources have nearly run out.

This time they stop in Lutetia. It's as big a city as a provincial outpost can be. It has temples, a forum, markets. Traders from all over Gaul, Belgica and Helvetia come here to sell their wares. Farmers roll in from the country with carts full of their products. Chancers and wastrels saunter into town looking to make their fortunes.

Merlin and Arthwr become stable boys. Arthwr's good with horses, easily builds a rapport with them. Merlin is always keen on animals and what he knows about curing humans he can use to tend other living creatures. Those skills combined easily win them the position. 

It has its downsides in that they do have to muck out the stables – an activity Arthwr mostly relegates to Merlin on the plea he's better at saddling – but it makes them some money, mostly in tips from the inn's patrons. 

They lodge in the inn itself, in a garret with a low ceiling situated under the roof. By night they push the beds together and lie crowded close, like animals in their lair, puppies from the same litter, breathing each other's breath, lying in the concave space left by their hips. 

Merlin's nose nearly brushes the rafters, such a short distance away he can count the termite holes in the material and make out the lines and whorls nature etched into it. He can't always do it. He can mostly spot those by day and very early in the morning, before they have to go and start a new day, because it's often dark in their lodgings, guttering tallow candles not enough to illuminate the place. The upside is that they don't have to think of creeping insects. 

The cramped condition of their living space is not all that bad either. Thanks to the limited space and the body closeness this engenders, their lodgings are always warm with the heat of them.

They make some good money. It's probably not a lot, not in the way Arthwr must have been be used to when he was a prince, but it's more than Merlin thought they ever would make on the road. If they save wisely, it might get them as far as the shores of Britannia. 

They spend the spring in the city, wait for the good season to drench the streets and bridges in sunlight, for the air to warm and the fields at the edges of town to ripen to a green like that of the sea. 

They enjoy slower days, days during which even work seems more pleasant because of the indolence that saps their bones and makes their customers less demanding.

During the tail end of summer, when the weather is at it's hottest and the stones in the forum reflect the glare of the sun, Merlin starts to imagine a future for them, one bound by the confines of this very city. It's pretty easy to. They've stayed put for a while, they have lodgings, a steady occupation. It would be a good life, if a humble one. 

Merlin's lived a life of very modest means before back in Rome when word of his skills hadn't spread yet. He thinks he could take to it again. But then he looks at Arthwr, stretched on the sloping verdant banks that lead to the river, his body powerful, his pose lofty even in repose, and tells himself Arthwr isn't cut out for such a life. 

He's a king through and through. No, Arthwr must make it back to Britain and be allowed to fight for his throne. Merlin will ensure that he can.

They leave Lutetia on a hot summer day.

**** 

 

They travel northwards but also westwards, mostly because Merlin starts recognising the landscape as something familiar to him and suggests that crossing such country would be better than trying to wade across areas they don't know the least thing about.

Arthwr agrees, dubs him their navigator. “I feel it, Merlin,” he says, his hand going to the hilt of his sword as they plod on. “We're getting close to our goal.”

Trees soar upwards, sough in the wind. The sun plays with their leaves, chasing diamond shaped patterns across stems and laminas. Sometimes sunlight spears through the luscious vegetation and makes it to ground level, painting a tracery of light effects on the ground.

The soil is firm beneath their feet; brooks and rivers bubble along gentle inclines and flatter terrain. When forests dwindle to a few isolated patches -- random clumps of trees, scattered stands of oak, elm and beech --, farmland takes their place, fields rolling in a vast expanse of green and gold. Farmsteads rise here and there, structures of the kind Merlin's used to, has seen before in the land of his birth.

The nature of the landscape inviting in memories, Merlin is flooded with a sweet melancholy that burns his eyes and mellows his pulse. The oddest recollections slip in through the chinks of his consciousness, stay with him until the floodgates open and he has to stop every now and then so he won't be overwhelmed.

Arthwr drinks from his flask, acts as though they're stopping for that, but Merlin knows he's caught on, wants to give Merlin a moment to commune with the land of his birth. Merln does his best to resume the march.

By moving northwards, Arthwr and Merlin steal closer to the villages that crop up in the region, one close to the other. The dialect the people use here is of a variety so similar to Merlin's native speech that tears come to Merlin's eyes when he hears it. 

It's been so long since he heard tones like these, since his ears were lulled by this particular cadence. There's something heartbreaking about it, about how he's managed to forget, about how much he's dismissed his nostalgia for his homeland during all the years he spent away.

At times when they have to ask directions of a farmer, Merlin drops Latin entirely and makes use of his native tongue. Revels in it. Finds himself remembering words he thought he'd lost.

Hearing him master those tones, the locals often invite them over for lunch.

On one such occasion they're ushered in the large communal hall of one moderately sized village, where long tables are set, laden with food – meats and fruits, cheeses and roots cooked to softness. 

The table is presided by the town elder, a farmer wearing the garb of the Romans but using the speech patterns of Gallia. His wife, a portly matron, sits next to him and has pride of place, like his daughters, young women wearing long veils, hair nearly as long, russet like the bark of trees, gathered in tresses. Next to the elder a grizzeld man sits. He has a rowan staff he doesn't put down, not even to eat.

All through the meal Merlin stares at him, wondering how he can still bear the symbol of his office, how he can be that brave. The man looks to Merlin too, acknoweldging him with a nod and a lift of his staff. He smiles, then reprises his meal.

One of the villagers tells Merlin, “I see you're interested in our bard, Taliesin.”

Merlin switches to his native tongue. “He's much more than a bard.”

“Indeed,” the villager tells him with a circumspect little nod. “I see that you're one one of us.”

“Not of your people proper,” Merlin says, lifting his glass of mead so it looks like he's still partaking in the fare and not discussing secrets. “But I don't think our customs are that different from yours.”

“That they can't be, if you can make out the signs,” the villager tells Merlin. “I'll get you an audience with Taliesin if you so wish.”

“I'd love to talk lore to him,” Merlin says, smiling brightly, reddening too.

“Lore,” the villager snorts, as though he knows. “But I'll ask him. I'm not one of his, but he'll heed my words.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says, acknowledging the villager with a toast. “I don't know what to say.”

The villager shrugs. “I thought I'd do you this good turn since you look like a good lad.” The villager drinks a dram of mead. “Besides you'd better seize the opportunity and meet Taliesin now. You never know...”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks with a frown.

“Taliesin is stubborn. He walks around openly bearing his staff, like his great-grandfather would have done,” the villager says. “He's bound to get arrested, if he carries on like that.”

When someone else addresses the villager, Merlin goes back to eating, but he remembers the words the man told him. He must have stayed silent for longer than he thought, for Arhwr observes, “You look thoughful.”

Merlin considers that. “It's just... there's so much that reminds me of home here.”

The weight of Arthwr's hand setttles on his shoulder, easy and comfortable. Merlin picks his food back up.

Music plays and people dance, hopping to the rhythm of the lutes. Arthwr joins too and Merlin watches him from their table. Arthwr's not too good at keeping pace with the music. When dancing he certainly doesn't display the same talent he does as when he fights with a sword. But as he twirls girls down the length of the hall, he wears a grin. And that's all that counts; that's what makes you a good dancing partner.

Merlin smiles at him. He hoists his tankard and acknowledges Arthwr by raising it to his lips. Arthwr returns the gesture though his hand's empty. 

The roundhouse Taliesin receives him in is considerably smaller than most of the other buildings in the village and much more secluded. The thatch and moss nestling over the roof have sprouted flowers of every colour, deep pink and soft blue and sturdy yellow. Birds have nested under the eaves, the shorn heads of the young ones peeking out of their beds of twigs and straw. 

From the door hang herbs Merlin recognises, mistletoe with its jagged leaves and red berries, vervain with its toothed ones, and betony, with its lance shaped sprouts. Misteltoe brings fertility. Vervain enables mortals to see the spirits of the air and eases trances. Betony repels evil spirits. They look like the substances that Amergain used to stuff in the chinks of his doorframe with back in Merlin's native village. 

A rowan tree is etched on the lower quadrant of the door, its lines carved deep in the wood. They must have been worked into it long ago, long before Taliesin was ever born.

As Merlin raps on the door, his eye balls go hot, as they do when he's healing. “Is anyone in?” Merlin asks.

The door opens of its own volition and Merlin steps in. 

The room is low ceilinged, steeped in penumbra. It smells like burnt oak bark and pressed rowan berries. It's a smell that Merlin knows well. It tastes of his childhood, of long lessons learnt by rote, by repetition, words falling quick from his tongue in rhymes and configuartions meant to ease the memory process. Couplets that were more than a nice rounding of words, assonances that were more than a pretty litany of sound, for they convey secrets, hide connections between the world of man and nature. Merlin remembers those lessons very well, but he shakes his head.

He's not here to reminisce.

Like Merlin's old tutor, Taliesin owns a long work table, cluttered with many odds and ends. It nearly cuts the room in two. On it are cups and bowls, phials, and stachets redolent of herbs. Creams in pots and jaws of various shape also adorn the lenght of it. 

Taliesin himself is working at the hearth, stirring a potion bubbling in a brass cauldron.

“Emrys,” Taliesin says without looking up.

“Emrys,” Merlin repeats, because that's the same name Brigid used.

“You sound surprised by the sound your own name,” Taliesin observes as he continues stirring.

“I've only recently learnt of it,” Merlin says. “It's a little new.”

Taliesin cocks his head at him. “Then they haven't taught you much.” He looks to the torc Merlin's wearing somewhat pointedly, so much so Merlin's under the impression it heats up. “Though they bestowed the highest honours on you.”

“I--” Merlin says, touching the torc. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Alas,” says Talisin, busy at the cauldron, “they took long before you were ready.”

Merlin is still trying to pick apart the strands of Taliesin's comment, when he says, “Come here, young man, and help me set this potion bubbling.”

Merlin steps forward. “How?”

Taliesin puts the ladle down. “Spread your hands above this cauldron.”

“My hands...”

“Oh in the name of the gods, just bless this,” says Taliesin. “You surely know how to.”

Merlin's mind goes back to the blessings he was taught as a boy, the ones he used to say over the healing potions he used to prepare at Amergain's bidding. Thinking of the words is surprisingly easy; they come to him as though they're just waiting to be spoken. His magic thrums along his body, lighting him up from the inside. It zings down his arms and warms his hands. The heat transfers to the cauldron, the liquid inside changing colours.

“Some things,” says Taliesin, “are inborn.”

Merlin spends the whole afternoon preparing potions with Taliesin. He doesn't dare ask any more questions of him, seek clarity, but he does find enjoyment in the work he does at his bidding. It reminds Merlin of a past he can no longer lay a claim to. It puts a smile to his face, makes him want to wear that expression even if his cheeks hurt a little. 

After he's transmuted the potion, he turns to work on the herbs. Next, and of his own volition, he blesses the satchels he finds on the table. 

“I see you haven't forgotten everything after all,” says Taliesin, noticing how Merlin has taken to moving with assurance from one bowl to the other, scattering prayers and benedictions over them. 

“Indeed,” Merlin says with a smile. “It seems I haven't.”

“Good,” Taliesin says. “Come again tomorrow. If, that is, you're still here by then.”

Merlin and Arthwr tarry in the village. They have reason, after all. Getting provisions and resting after days on the road is important. And if Arthwr suspects Merlin would love to stay and turns his wish into a reality, Merlin can only call himself grateful Arthwr understands. 

Though they don't discuss it beforehand -- Arthwr doesn't aks and Merlin doesn't plead --, they accept the hut assigned to them by the elder leader. 

Merlin weaves a protective spell all over it, a kind of blessing he learnt long ago, and happily takes up residence there. The house is small and smells like straw, but it's homey and thanks to his current location Merlin gets to talk to Taliesin every day. 

Taliesin instructs him in potion brewing and powder making. It's like being an acolyte again. Not everything is new though. Taliesin also has him dry herbs according to a process that's ages old and that Merlin's thoroughly familiar with to the point he knows what to do without need of asking. It's like wearing an old pair of shoes. He knows the grooves of this, how it's done. It's an instinct. 

They don't broach the subject of Merlin's magic and Merlin doesn't feel like they should until Taliesin is ready, but Merlin doesn't feel any strain between them. It's not secrecy that spurs the silence, but the way of relationships, the natural tempo of them. He supposes they'll talk about it when Taliesin wants to. For now Merlin's quite happy to be playing the apprentice. 

Arthwr notices too. “You're beaming all the time.”

“I just like this place,” Merlin says, lying down on the low bed he and Arthwr share. “That's all.”

“We could stay a few days more if you like it,” Arthwr says, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Would you like that?”

“I'd like you to kiss me some more,” Merlin says, not ready yet to admit how much he longs to stay.

They do end up staying a while longer. Merlin doesn't meet with Taliesin every day. Sometimes he helps in the fields with Arthwr and sometimes he goes out spear fishing with some of the youngsters. He also spends a considerable amount of his time tending to sick cattle

He's on his way tell Taliesin he's just birthed a lamb, when he sees the Roman soldiers. One of them bangs on the bard's door, yelling. “Taliesin, you're under arrest for practising the abhorrent practices of the druids.”

As he hears the words, Merlin storms over. “Hey,” he says, “you can't do that!”

At the same time, Taliesin opens the door, walks out holding only his staff. “I am here, young Roman,” he says. “No need to stir up this racket.”

Merlin steps forward and in front of Taliesin. “You can't cart him away,” he says, memories of this happening before surfacing. This had been the fate of his people from long before he was born. Ever since Vercingetorix failed this had been their lot. People had been taken from him under his very eyes. “He hasn't done anything wrong, committed no crime!”

“And who are you?” the legionary asks. “You sound like a citizen of Rome, but you uphold outlawed practices.”

“A guest,” Merlin says, attempting to deflect the curiosity of the legionary, the more so since Arthwr has joined them, probably to check on the ruckus. If the soldier guesses who Arthwr is, they'll be carting him away along with old Taliesin. “Someone who cares about the people who hosted him.”

“I advise you to step down,” the legionary says, studying Arthwr even while he speaks to Merlin. He does turn to Merlin to deliver the final blow. “Or we'll arrest you too and be done with it.”

Arthwr puts his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Merlin."

Taliesin says, “Don't interfere, young man. This is not your path and this is not your destiny.”

Merlin balls his fists. “But.”

“That's enough,” Taliesin says. “This is my final word.”

Merlin wants to use his magic, stop the legionaries and give Taliesin his freedom. But Taliesin's voice resounds in his head. “Don't,” it says. “It's not your place to.” Arthwr stays him too. In the end Merlin lets the singing of his magic die down. He watches Taliesin being shuffled away. His voice once again sounds in Merlin's head, terse, clear and yet like something that has an echo to it that catches at Merlin's soul, centuries old. “Do not worry about me, Merlin. I'll set myself free one day. Free as the birds in the trees. You have a greater destiny to attend to. Bide to it.”

Merlin crashes to his knees and cries, but does as he's told.

The next day he and Arthwr leave the village. Merlin marches along the paths taking him out of it with his head down and his fists tightened. He doesn't say anything the whole day, not when they stop for lunch and not even when they camp out at the night, a time they usually spend talking about their day. Towards dawn, when they're preparing to start again, Arthwr tells him, “It's not your fault. You couldn't have done anything to stop that.”

Merlin nearly barks at Arthwr that he understands nothing, that Merlin did have the wherewithal to stop what happened from taking place. He just didn't do it. He does trust in Taliesin's powers, in his ability to free himself, and he doesn't want to breach the pact of respect he thinks is between himself and the bard, but he the truth remains, he stood by and watched him being taken. What that makes him is pretty clear. 

He wants to rant. He wants to break down and cry. But he doesn't. Arthwr is aware of too little for Merlin to be able to give in to that. 

That night before falling asleep he says, "I hope Brigid protects you, my friend."

He doesn't mention Taliesin often after that. Names have power to them so he doesn't, couldn't possibly, but he bears the burden of his memory right on his heart.

“You haven't smiled in days,” Arthwr observes one afternoon. “It's a pity to see.”

It's all that Merlin needs to take the guilt of his chest, if not the pain of it. A smile edges onto Merlin's lips. “Thank you, Arthwr.”

“Thank you for what?” Arthwr asks.

Merlin kisses that mouth. “For caring.”

 

****

The road takes them farther westwards, past small villages and flat but verdant plateaus, vast meadows carpeted with flowers as far as the eye can see. Scattered strips of trees line the banks of the rivers and brooks they ford. It's the landscape of Merlin's heart, a place that Merlin recognises with every fibre he's got in his body. He's home. After more than twelve years absence, he's back. 

This thought uplifting him, Merlin stops in his tracks and impresses the view on his senses, makes sure he memorises the contours of it, the colours of it, the greens and yellows and the soft blue of the sky. He sears the taste of the air on his tongue. He splays his legs wide so his feet can sink into the soil. His soul soars. He's still breathing his country into his lungs, when he spots a whole ala of legionaries.

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, unsheathing his sword. 

 

*****

 

Sunlight glints off the loricas of the soldiers in powerful bursts that shock the retinas, blind the eyes. Their shields curve around their arms in powerful foils of metal. Their boots sink into the mud, big and heavy. The soldiers square themselves out in a semi circle. The man leading them sits astride a white horse with decorative plumage and silver trinkets worked in its mane. The horse paws the ground, tosses its head. The centurion lifts his sword, the sun catching the point of his blade. He shouts, “Seize the rebel prince.”

For a few seconds before the charge starts, the air holds still, every particle of it frozen mid moment. Then hooves thunder into the ground, raising clops of earth.

Merlin turns to Arthwr. “Run!” he shouts.

"Riiight," Merlin says, only belatedly moving.

“To the cover of trees!” Arthwr yells back, pointing towards the line of oaks looming northwards. Then he sets off, his legs pistoning forwards, setting him on the right course.

With the roar of a cavalry charge in his ears, Merlin scrambles into a run, pushes towards that goal too, keeping the treeline firmly in sight. 

He speeds towards it, his legs moving fast, faster than he thinks they ever have. He runs until his heart seizes-up in his chest and fireworks burst forth before his eyes, until his muscles ache, and the soles of his feet do too. He pants hard, satisfying the cravings of his lungs seemingly impossible.

Equally terrifyingly, his heart hammers in his throat. It's as though it's going to burst and choke him. He mustn't think about that though. He mustn't or he'll stop. When it becomes clear he hasn't got the strength to go on like this, he turns around.

He sees the line of soldiers galloping towards him, presenting a united front, the horses' long legs stretching forwards, their muscles glistening in the sun, their mouths frothing. They're eating ground at an impressive pace.

If it goes on like this, the cavalry will be upon them before they can reach safety. There's no other way. Arthwr must make it. He's close to the treeline, closer than Merlin. He can feasibly escape if he stops the legionaries.

Merlin's close to collapsing. He stands little chance. It's only reasonable that he should be the one to do this. Besides, his powers itch to be tested. 

With a hand lifted palm outwards he faces the oncoming attack.

He bursts with energy, magic leaking from his every pore, nesting deep inside him and blooming red hot, nearly making him anew. A vessel for the earth and sky, for the seas and air.

He's about to unleash his power on the legionaries, words falling off his tongue with the rapidity that need engenders, when his voice is joined by others. 

Merlin's chant falters. 

He looks left and right. Old men bearing thick rowan staffs stand either side of him, their invocation matching Merlin's. Merlin has only a moment to wonder how these people could have known he needed help, before he has to focus on the legionaries once again.

Merlin starts his spell again. His magic thrumming in his veins, seeping into the soles of his feet from the bowels of the earth. His spine comes alive, burning like a rod, propelling his magic outwards. 

The priests' chant flows into his and increases his power. Left by itself Merlin's magic's incendiary, but with the additional boost of the priests', Merlin's feels like a star about to be born. 

He's channelling so much power, he's not sure he can control all of it. It's heady. He's dizzy. The world comes to him as if from far away, fringed with flames he belatedly realises are the manisfestations of his power. 

A word from Merlin and the legionaries are enveloped in white light, as clear as honey. A wall of air rises, like a whirlwind, and they are repulsed, scattered backwards. Their horses neigh in fear. 

By the time Merlin's finished with his spell only a few Romans are left standing. Their helmets have come off and are strewn half melted on the ground. Their loricas and mailshirts have caved. Most of their swords, those that had been bared in the charge, are stumps. 

Merlin lowers his hand, turns to the priests, inclines his head. “How?” he says. “Why? I--”

“Emrys,” the priest with the staff with the most notches says, “flee. Flee now.”

“But--” Merlin says, not wanting to leave his saviour in the lurch. “I can't.”

The Romans are regrouping, going for their mounts, looking for extra weapons among their supplies.

The priest says, “Save yourself. Cross the thicket, enter the sacred grove, and push north towards our village. You'll find shelter there.” 

“No, I can't,” Merlin says. Though he sees it as his sacred duty to accompany Arthwr to Britannia, he can't abandon these men who've helped him. “I won't leave you. I refuse to.”

“You will save yourself. We have not waited for centuries so that you may die in a little skirmish,” the priest says, his voice much deeper than an ordinary man's has any right to be, fuelled as it seems to be by the power of thunder and storm. “We can take care of these puny Romans.”

“I've already failed a friend,” Merlin says. “I won't do it again.”

“You respected him enough to abide by his wishes,” the priests says, sounding as though he's speaking about Taliesin, though he can't know, can he? “Do the same by us.” The priests's eyes flash fire. “Now go!”

Merlin reluctantly leaves the priests' side and rejoins Arthwr by the thicket. By the time he comes up to him, Arthwr's eyes are wide, and studying him closely. There's something in their depths – something like a great commotion -- that Merlin can't entirely make out. “You weren't lying,” he says when Merlin's close enough to catch his words, spoken low as though it's a secret he's divulging. He then repeats that sentence, mouth just the littlest bit lax, before rounding his exclamation off with the words, “You do have magic.”

“Well, yes,” Merlin says, torn between the need to discuss the topic at hand and fleeing. “I am.”

Arthwr's mouth forms words that don't make it to sound. He rakes a hand through his hair, looks away, then back at Merlin out of the same round eyes as before. “I didn't... I didn't think there was such a thing. Magic like that.”

Merlin sucks his lip in, runs his tongue along the chapped sections. “Well, there is. I did try and tell you.”

Arthwr's pupils stay remarkably large. “Right. You did. You did." He looks down, shakes his head, then looks up again, sheepishly. "I-- That was impressive and awe-inspiring,” he then adds. He blinks several times and his voice goes husky when he says, “Beautiful.” 

Warmth floods Merlin. No one's said anything like that to him before. He's had to hide for so long. Even his co-religionists, who certainly knew the truth about his healing abilities as Merlin then called them, never said anything like that. They were matter of fact about the path Merlin was to take. What Arthwr's said is so personal, such an appreciation of who he is, that warmth blooms inside Merlin. He wants to smile. His eyes prickle a little too and he has to wipe at them with the heel of his hand so as not to make a spectacle of himself. But as much as Merlin would love to show Arthwr his magic and explain the ins and outs of it to him, he's aware now's not the time. The remaining Roman soldiers are spearing towards the priests protecting them. “Arthwr, we've got to go. Before they get to us.”

Arthwr blinks and says, “Yes, yes you're right.” 

They penetrate into the thick of the forest where wide grey trunks loom. They stand so close together their canopies touch, shaking in a breeze that whispers through their leaves, barring out sunlight. 

No path can cut through the thick vegetation, the nearly impenetrable shield of roots and branches, the knots of offshoots and vines. 

To pass they have to ease their bodies in between the barrels of the trees. They slip on beds of moss and lichen, the smell of both redolent in their nostrils. Their feet sink into cushions of browned pine needles and mulchy russet leaves. Here and there rough squares of sunlight through the space between branches, colouring the underbrush honey. Walls of bark swathed in emerald growths surround them.

As they get lost in the depths of the forest, the wind wails in songs like chimes, whispers that have the sound of incantations, sibiliants, guttural little sounds, a soft chorus that seems to be coming from great distances, worlds that are other. 

Though the sussurration is too low, Merlin fancies he can understand the words. He thinks he can pick out the voices too, timless ones with a timbre as deep as the forest, tinkling ones that make the same noise as a brook dashing forwards, laughing ones like the giggles of merry children. 

The voices merge in Merlin's heard, then the threads unspool again. Sound turns to image and in his mind's eye Merlin sees the path ahead of them. It unfolds in segments, twists and turns and linear stretches.

“This way,” Merlin says, as he takes Arthwr by the hand and hurries him forwards. 

“How can you be so sure?” Arthwr says. “We don't know this place and we've scarcely gathered our bearings.”

Merlin cocks his head, takes in Arthwr. “Trust me.”

Something in his tone or his look must have conveyed his certainty, because Arthwr gasps. “Yes.”

They jog along narrow paths, turn again and again, wet leaves brushing agaist their faces, their clothes getting caught in branches, until at last they come out of the woods and to the outskirts of a village. 

It's made up of a few outlying farms and several roundhouses built inside a perimeter wall. The houses are encircled by a fence of willow and hazel sticks. 

Some are big stuctures, others much more humble ones. Animals scurry in the spaces between buildings: rangy dogs lope along side streets while fat domestic cats sit on window sills. Stray pigs whose hide is as dark as night range the lanes. Scrawny chickens peck at the dirt strewn across them. Cows low from their pens and sheep bleat plaintively. 

Merlin and Arthwr tread along the outer roads that lead to the village's main square. Wearily, they trudge past back-gardens and orchards, past the back of houses whose timbers are damp with recent rains. 

When they come to the square, everyone comes out, young and old, men and women, a priest and priestess.

As Merlin and Arthwr lift their hands in greeting, they all kneel, down to the last one of them, the priest leading the action. He bows head, his hand staying wrapped around the long staff that's a symbol of his office. “Emrys,” he says, not lifting his head. “You've finally come back.”

Arthwr turns to him. Merlin knows he's watching his profile like a hawk because he can feel his gaze burn his skin. “Merlin?”

“I, erm, have never set foot here before,” says Merlin, half to Arthwr, half to his audience. 

“Yet we knew you would come,” the priest says, this time sneaking a glance at Merlin, at the torc he's wearing, which burns at the ends as though the twists of gold are coming alive. “It was foretold, Emrys.”

“Foretold,” Merlin repeats, not clear about what's going on. “How could you... I don't even know you.” To Arthwr he says, “I swear I don't know these people.”

The priest lifts his chin, though he's still kneeling. “You can't have forgotten who you are,” he says, then pierces Arthwr with his eyes. “I can't talk about the secret of our rites before strangers.”

“Rites?” Arthwr asks, looking from the priest to Merlin.

Merlin begs the priest to rise with a gesture, then looks to Arthwr, scratching his temple. “There's something I haven't told you about my past.”

“That's evident,” Arthwr says, curt, deadpan, not angry, but not humourous either.

“Look,” Merlin says to his audience as well as Arthwr, “why don't we discuss this inside? It's starting to rain and we all have some mutual clearing up to do.”

The priest rises to his feet, using his staff for leverage. To Merlin, he says, “We can use the great hall.” To the woman who went to her knees beside him, he says, “Finna, prepare the room.”

The great hall is as big as two roundhouses put together. Because of the rain it smells like moist wood, and fresh soil. The smell of burnt meadowseet weighs the air down. Priests come here often after all. No long tables are set out for feasts, but a throne like chair sits on a dais, furs spread at its feet, over its back and around it. Other lenghts of fur – coming from bears, grey wolfves, foxes and otters – are scattered plushly along the length of the room. 

The priest says, “With the blessing of Brigid I welcome you here.”

Merlin expects him to take the big chair on the dais, like a chieftain, but he doesn't. Instead he sits cross legged on a mound of pelts, inviting Merlin to do the same.

Artwhr makes to sit but Merlin grabs him by the elbow. “Not yet,” he mumbles, before replying to the priests's invitation in his old tongue, using a polite ritual formula he was taught as a child. 

The priest acknwoledges that with a solemn nod. “Welcome to Brix. My name is Alator and I'm the village's spiritual leader.”

“I guessed that when I saw your staff,” Merlin says, tipping his head at it. “I was born among people who are much like yours.”

“And yet you seem to have forgotten your roots, found new alliances,” Alator says and trails off, looking from Arthwr to Merlin, then settling his gaze back on him again.

Merlin opens his mouth, pauses before speaking, then says, “You can trust Arthwr.”

“Have you trusted him with the secrets of your initiation?”

“No,” Merlin says, “because I promised I would never reveal them, not to a soul, on pain of death.”

Arthwr edges in a question. “Sect, what sect? What are you talking about? I don't get any of this.”

Merlin looks to Alator. Alator inclines his head. Merlin says, “When I was a child in my native village, I was chosen to become a... druid, a priest.”

“We have priests too,” Arthwr says, bobbing his head to show he understands, studying Merlin earnestly, as if it's the first time he's clapping eyes on him. “I get that. Though I don't understand why you would keep your position a secret.”

“We are sworn in,” Merlin says. “Our prayers, incantations and rituals are secret. Only to be talked about among ourselves.” Merlin rubs his thighs. “That's part of the reason none of us talk much about it, for fear of spilling knowledge not meant for anyone but the initiated. Once it would have been a little different though. When we were free, long ago, before Caesar, druids were known spiritual leaders, the people you turned to for guidance. We didn't have to hide. Druids, real ones, would be able to discuss matters of religion, the part that can be shared, without worry. Like your people likely do.” Merlin twists his mouth. “Another reason for my silence is that, well, I never finished my initiation. Because of that I never really thought of myself as a druid.”

“But why?” Arthwr asks, lines segmenting his brow. “Why didn't you finish?”

Since Alator seems to already know the answer, Merlin mostly addresses Arthwr when he says, “You saw the Romans arresting Taliesin. They have mostly outlawed druidism here in Gaul and elsewhere too, all over the empire actually.”

“I've only recently realised it's that tough for priests here,” Arthwr says, shaking his head. "British druids don't have to face that."

“Yeah, they don't, not yet, because they're free of Rome,” Merlin says. “But over here Romans are wiping druids out as a caste. They started before I was born and continued after." Merlin briefly closes his eyes, opens them. "As for my story... I was young. They didn't arrest me because of that. Killing a boy, they'd have had an insurrection on their hands. For some reason I was the only one so young that was chosen. I mean with Druidism being forbidden nobody was allowed in the ranks. Doubly dangerous." Merlin swallows. "So the Romans had the burden of me. They couldn't harm me. But they certainly didn't like what I stood for. At the time they were trying to ease Romanisation onto my people, so they found their solution. But they deported me to Rome. I was meant to grow up there and forget my origins.”

“Were you sold as a slave?” Arthwr asks, his palm landing on Merlin's shoulder, his free fist tightening.

“No, no.” Merlin waves his hands about in denial. “Gaius took me under his wing and tutored me. If he hadn't... well...”

“That has been the destiny of many of our priests,” says Alator. “They want to erase our religion. They condemn things they don't understand.”

“Yes.” Merlin feels a weight coil around his heart, strangling it, emptying it of blood. “There have been too many deaths, too many arrests and threats.”

“That's why you're so important,” Alator says.

Merlin laughs, shakes his head. “I don't-- I don't see how.”

“You're Emrys.”

Merlin sighs. “Well, my initiation was cut shorter than you probably think. Your words are lost on me. I still don't know what that means.”

“You are a legend,” Alator says in such a matter of fact tone Merlin would snort if he didn't think it highly disrespectful. “You are the greatest among us.”

“You must be wrong,” Merlin says, his face going hot. “I am no legend. Nobody knows about me. I've done nothing worthy of mention, let alone great, so I can't see how why you could believe I have a shot at being a legend. I'm not even a real druid!”

“If you haven't forgotten your roots so completely,” Alator says, “you'll know that divination is at the basis of our faith.”

“Divination isn't an exact science though,” Merlin says, remembering the early days of his initiation. While soothsaying hadn't been his strongest suit, he recollects his early lessons well. Vivian had told him about the value of personal interpretation when it comes to reading future events. “The future is always nebulous,” he adds, quoting her, though Alator can't know that.

“Granted,” Alator says, curt, dismissive of Merlin's objection. “But this is written in the earth. This is spoken of by the wind.”

Merlin can't sense any of that. Has never been aware of that. But he doesn't say as much. He doesn't believe he should challenge Alator when he's been so kind as to shelter him and Arthwr. There's even a small chance these people aren't resting their hopes on a bogus interpretation. He does have magic after all and has only recently found out. The problem is that he doesn't feel as special as Alator purports. 

His chest deflates. “How is that supposed to work out? It can't.”

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, “I think it will.”

Alator sharply turns his head so he's facing Arthwr. “Your friend is right, Emrys.”

“He thinks a little too well of me,” Merlin says.

“No,” Arthwr tells him, placing his hand on Merlin's knee. “It's not that. You're special. What I've seen... What I've witnessed bears no comparison to any feat ever performed by a flesh and blood hero. You heal people. You wield magic like it's nothing. You're an army unto yourself. You are what they say you are.”

Merlin blinks. He's trying to understand how Arthwr went from believing he was touched in the head, to fully embracing Alator's theory. As for Alator Merlin gets where he comes from. Druidic traditions do tend to be based on myth. “So what ought I to do? How can I be the person you think I am?”

“You already are,” Alator says, as cryptical as Merlin's old masters. Perhaps Merlin missed an important part of the initiation process, the one where the teach you to be elusive when trying to convey meaning and that's why he can't fathom what Alator's telling him. “Deep whithin.”

“I still don't get it,” Merlin says, getting a sinking feeling in his stomach. If he doesn't know how to go about making that future happen, he won't be of help to anybody. He's not even sure he wants to be some kind of mystic at this point. He never finished training and now that's done with. No going back. He's too old. Before Caesar they only initiated children. Besides, he wants to be with Arthwr. “I don't know how I could be that.”

“Just go about your path,” Alator says with a sharp glance. 

Merlin sucks his lower lip into his mouth, wants to gnaw it, but can't resist the impulse of asking another question. “I don't know how to choose the right path though.”

“That's of little consequence,” says Alator, not fazed in the least by Merlin's admission of ignorance, by his utter failure. “You'll just know. You wouldn't be Emrys otherwise.”

Merlin doesn't point out the circular nature of this way of thinking. He wants an answer. He needs to find someone who'll tell him what to do. He'd also like the world to stop spinning around him. He dearly wishes for it to cease throwing stuff at him he can't cope with. “So what do I do now?”

“Follow your destiny.”

“I'm following Arthwr to Britannia,” Merlin says, taking Arthwr's hand. As much as he wants to reconnect with his roots and his people, he doesn't want to abandon Arthwr. “There is no other path for me.”

Alator exhales. “Then we'll help you achieve your goal.”

“You'll be pitting yourselves against the Romans,” Merlin points out. “They'll try for Arthwr again. He's a prince and there are lots of political reasons why they want to get their hands on him.”

“We are ready to take the Romans on,” Alator says, his expression both calm and severe.

“You can't,” Merlin says, shaking his head in denial. “There was a whole ala following us today. You can't take them all on.”

“We can and we will,” Alator says, tapping the end of his staff on the floor. “We will protect you or die trying.”

“But why?” Merlin asks. Though he clearly needs help, he doesn't want these people, his people, to risk their lives. “I'm not worth that.”

“You are,” Alator says, rising from his cross-legged position in one fluid movement. “You are our future. You are the promise of a chance for our religion.”

Merlin still doesn't see how he can be all of that. “I'm not even staying in Gaul.”

“We'll lend you horses and escort you wherever you need to go,” Alator says, pausing on the threshold of the long hall. 

“The coast,” Merlin mumbles, still not sure he's on board with this, the effort these people are going to put on his behalf, their faith in him. 

“We'll find you a ship then,” Alator says, wiping his tunic. He casts a rather cold look ar Arthwr. "Sailing for Britannia,"

“My homeland,” Arthwr says with a smile, without picking up Alator's mood.

“Your homeland?”

“Arthwr's the son of the king of the Albionenses.”

“Ah, the dragon,” Alator says, in a whisper soft tone. His perpetual frown eases, his shoulders relax. “As foretold. It all makes sense after all.” 

Without specifying how, Alator leaves, his priestly robe rustling in his wake.

 

**** 

 

The night before they're due to leave, the villagers throw a feast in their honour. They all sit round the fire and maidens come out of the forest to dance to the sound of lutes and drums, their hair down, blown about by the breeze, by the sharp rhythm of their movements. 

The girls wear flowery crowns on their heads, petals in their tresses. The flowers shine in the firelight, wild buds gilt by the leaping flames to a burnished tint, like copper, like gold. Quicker and quicker they circle round the fire.

The old men and women sit around it too, watching the girls with their hands on their knees. The warriors' palms rest on the pommel of their swords, around the girth of their spears.

The music reaches a crescendo and the maidens stamp their feet on the ground in a cadenced pattern that makes Merlin's heart beat with it and his bones thrum with it. Then, quick as a blink, they throw petals at Merlin's feet. 

A fresh group of girls trails towards him, moving as if in a procession. They wear white robes and they bear trays they lay at Merlin's feet. 

“Offerings for Emrys,” the lady in the lead says.

Merlin starts to say he can't accept the gift. He blabbers that it's too much. Food delicacies that are fit for a king's palate, dainty trinkets good for the most fastidious lady, precious stones as big as his fist, precious enough to belong to the funeral hoard of a great chieftain, a victorious leader. Merlin's none of those things. “I can't accept.

“For Emrys,” the girl leading the others repeats.

Arthwr nudges him, shoulder to shoulder. “Take them,” he hisses.

"I can't," Merlin murmurs. "Look at that. Such an offering will make them poor."

"I doubt it," Arthwr tells him. "You'll have to or you'll dishonour them."

Arthwr would know, wouldn't he. He's a prince and he knows about being diplomatic. Merlin sighs and accepts the offerings.

“A blessing, please, Emrys,” the girl adds, while the others in her group nod.

As he searches for a blessing, Merlin hums a little. He's never had to do what a druid does before. He's prayed and said spells over herbs. He's used his powers to heal. But he's never done something quite like this, this personal, this ritualistic, as though the power of the earth's actually invested in him. It's as if these people believe he has the power of a real druid, and one from long ago to boot. Knowing he must say something though, he racks his brain for the appropriate words. At last he remembers one benediction. It's not a prayer. It's not something from their rites. It something Vivian told him about when he was a child, words the fairies says, she revealed.

The girls curtsey once he's done, go away whispering to each other. “I felt it. I felt his power.”

The feast grows to a crescendo when food is distributed among the other participants. A poet stands up. As the others eat, he recites songs about great deeds, high priests, heroes and goddesses, nature and death. As the moon comes down, the crowd thins. 

Merlin and Arwthr wind their way to their lodgings.

Once they're alone in the roundhouse Alator has assigned to them, Arthwr moves towards him, and draws his arms around Merlin's shoulders. His eyes shine with the reflected light of the torches, but even without their reflected glare, they would glisten with their new softness. 

"Arthwr," Merlin says, just as Arhwr draws Merlin's lips to his mouth. 

"Merlin," he says, before kissing him slow and somewhat tender, until their tongues meet, and Merlin feels his blood heat with it, his eyes flash.

The kiss dwindles and finishes on a noisy breath. Arthur smudges his thumbs under Merlin's eyes. "You... you're doing it. Right now. You're doing magic."

"It's you," Merlin says, accompanying the words with a little shrug. "You ramp it up. The magic."

Arthwr skates his hands down his shoulder, down his torso, never stops touching him. His eyes go soft, liquid, a little dazed, with a sheen to them like water. His pupils go wide too, encompass the iris so that Arthur's gaze overall darkens. "Do I?"

"Yes, yes, you do," Merlin says, initiating a second kiss, trailing his open mouth down Arthur's jaw, sucking on his earlobe and under his chin. Arthur's breath quickens, thunders like a bellow. 

Merlin moves his mouth lower, down the cords of Arthwr's neck, which flex under his touch, stops to suck at his shoulder, but Arthwr's worn tunic is in the way. Merlin steps back.

"Don't," Arthwr says, trying to pull him back. "Don't."

Merlin smiles, undoes the belt that stays his tunic and pulls it off his head. Without the belt holding them in place, his undergarments slide off his legs. With a kick, his boots come off too. Naked and shivering, he walks into Arthwr's arms.

"Merlin," Arthwr breathes out, kissing his neck and shoulders, sweeping his palms down them, down his arms. They settle at his hips, pressure blooming on the bone. Sharp and quick, Merlin exhales, digs his fingers in Arthur's forearm, waits for Arthwr to touch more of him. 

As though he knows how much Merlin needs him, tonight of all nights, when he's not quite like himself, made other by all those words, acts and gestures, Arthwr gives him what he wants. He grabs his cock, skating his hands lightly down the length of him, long and slow. 

When Merlin hardens, sobs, Arthwr changes the pattern of his touches, tries a sharp twist and pull that rounds off his caresses. His fingertips trace the slit of Merlin's cock, nails seeking the tiny length of it, till it's weeping and Merlin's drawing in these short, ragged breaths. 

His legs start feeling funny, like they can't hold him anymore.

"Arthwr," he says, and Arthwr slows down, grabs his face, looks him in the eyes, a smiling etched on his face. He sucks Merlin's bottom lip into his mouth, holds him tight before laying him down on the pelts they have for a bed.

He doesn't strip. He pulls down his small clothes, undoes his belt, climbs between Merlin's legs and Merlin can feel it, Arthur hot and hard against him, his wet cock brushing his inner thigh.

Arthwr kisses Merlin once more, opening his mouth to Merlin's tongue. The kiss gets sloppier by the minute, fleshier, more moist, till it's not a kiss anymore. When they're lips are too sore to even play acting at kissing, Arthwr thumbs Merlin's mouth, the inside of it, presses against his tongue. With his own mouth open for gasps, he bites Merlin's chin, rasps his teeth along it, sucks in Merlin's Adam's apple, his lips and tongue wet and warm. Against the rise of it he murmurs, "Can you.." He pauses, tongues the rise of Merlin's throat. "Can you make yourself wet?"

Merlin says, yes, and yes, feels his face burn. All that it takes is a word. “It's...it's done,” he says, feeling cool dribbles seep out of him. 

Arthwr moves, his cock, blunt and hot, pushes into the crease between Merlin's cheeks. As Arthwr seeks an in, it catches a little at the rim. Merlin shuffles, goes hot in the face. Thinks he's never wanted anything quite like this, so fesverish, down to his marrow, as though he'll never be the same without. Arthur repositions himself. A hand fumbling under his tunic, he lines his cock up and homes in with a long stroke Merlin feels right to his core. He moans. He raves, says words that make no sense, magic glowing off him in a way that warms him just as Arthwr's cock does. Except it brightens his skin, scalds his eyes. 

“I've never--” Arthwr gasps. “--I've never really known you before, have I?”

“I,” Merlin says, bites his lip, continues, “I'm me. You... you know me.”

"Not like this." Arthwr rolls his hips, slides all the way in and then out, fleshy noises punctuating their motions. As he moves, flexing forward, and then slowly drawing back, he bites his lip. Sweat beads his temples, plastering his hair to the sides of his forehead. It forms on his upper lip. "Not like this."

Arthwr's beautiful when he's all focus and concentration, glassy eyes full of wonder, a dazed look to them that Merlin cherishes because it oozes affection. Broken on that softness, Merlin touches Arthwr's face with the broad of his hand. "You do have me."

"You really are a wonder," Arthwr says, going off on his personal tangent, words broken by little sobs, sobs that coincide with his smooth thrusts. "A beautiful, beautiful, mysterious... wonder."

Merlin is so steeped in sensing things with his body – the earthy fullness, the warmth, the taste and slickness of sweat -- that he can't quite concentrate on what Arthwr's saying. "What," he gasps as his tail-bone melts, his spine curves inwards and warm pleasure floods him. "I don't--What did you say?"

"A king." He touches the torc Merlin didn't take off, hasn't ever since Rome. "You're a king to your people."

The measure of Arthwr's thrusts shortens; pleasure fogs up Merlin's brain. "No-o," he says, wanting to clear that up even though he's not at his most logical. "No, I'm... I'm just a failed apprentice."

"No," Arthwr says, one hand at his hip, fingers curling round the length of bone where it's at his sharpest, the fingers of the other tracing his torc. "I'm right."

Merlin closes his eyes. "Arthwr, you're... you're deceiving yourself. You think that only because you want to...” He bites his lip, concentrates hard on saying the words rather than softening around the pleasure in him. “Because you're used to royalty."

Arthwr shushes him with his lips, nipping at the bow of Merlin's, puffing his breath against them. He's breathing so fast, so stuttered, Merlin can sense he's a hair's breath from coming. But Merlin can also tell he's focusing on not losing it. There's a tension to his jaw, to his muscles, a sense of determination in the tightening of his brow that suggests he's got other plans. He thumbs the base of Merlin's throat. It seems slow, haphazard, a counter to the snapping of his hips. But it's not random, Merlin realises, when Arthwr sweeps his thumb along the torc again. His forehead furrows more deeply and he stutters out the words, "You are and you don't even know."

The blood flames hot under Merlin's skin. "Not," he stammers, "of royal... blood." 

Belly to belly with Merlin, Arthwr moves on top of him, catches his mouth with his lips, rocks forwards. “High priest then," he says, slitting his eyes against the sweat beading his lashes, against, Merlin thinks, the wave of pleasure that must be taking him. 

With one upwards movement of his hips, Arthwr slots himself in deep, so deep he sets Merlin's skin tingling, his insides flooding with warmth and fire, and a power so pervasive and so wilful that it lights everything up: the roundhouse, their bed of pelts, Arthwr himself, the orchard outside, with its low trees shaking in the dead of night, branches cast up like a prayer. 

When Merlin comes, the whole roundhouse glows bright as though a thousand stars have taken up abode in it. Arthwr lifts his head, looks around. His eyes go comically wide, reflecting the brilliance of the room, like a second sun shining in it. At the same time he emits this little wail, this broken sound, and his mouth slackens. Merlin feels it then, the warmth of him. 

The look he wears right then -- stubborn, wilful, innocent, naive -- wrenches the love out of Merlin in the form of a big, stupid smile. Because all other words fail him and he's home, he falls back to speaking in his old tongue then. 

"What did you say?" Arthwr mutters against his skin, words slurred as he tips his head up

"Nothing," Merlin says, skimming Arthwr's temple with his lips. “Nothing.”

"Liar," Arthwr purrs, but it doesn't look as though he's going to contest the point, for he's gone heavier on Merlin.

"Only sometimes," Merlin says, mostly, he judges, to himself.

Merlin thinks Arthwr's fallen asleep, when he takes to rubbing the spot where his hip curves into his backside, and says, "This-- This, Merlin, is a miracle."

"No, it's just--"

"It's a miracle," Arthwr repeats, "what you do, what you are. You're a miracle."

Merlin says, "Hardly," wants Arthwr to believe he's only a common mortal. He wants to reassure him, make him see Merlin's not exactly what these people are saying he is, not so alien at all, just the man Arthwr met in Rome. A man who can choose to stick to this other man he wants because he has no big destiny.

But Arthwr curtails the discussion by falling asleep on him. If he's feigning, he's good at it, for his breathing is deep, and his mouth's opens laxly. But Merlin isn't sure, because slumber looks like too good an out to their conversation. "There's nothing holy about me," Merlin says, partly to make a point – maybe to win the argument, if they're having one – partly because he hopes Arthwr's heard him after all.

 

****

 

The next morning thei find horses waiting for them, saddled and tasselled, strong and powerful. Their saddles are made of fine leather, the finiments threaded through with silver. They ride northwards for hours, following the route Finna and Alator recommended.

The coast opens up before them, a round bay carved out of two rock phalanxes. The shingle beach comes in the shape of a sickle moon, wet pebbles shining in the orange glare of the lowering sun. The surf washes the feet of the cliff clean, anoints the rocks that tumble out to sea, while the windswept, heather-covered cliff tops keep looming to either side of them.

The ship is anchored off the long arc of shoreline, its sails the colour of flour, pale against the powdery whiteness of the fleecy clouds.

Arthwr grips the reins tight, slows his horse. “So it's true,” he says, his throat working. His burn clear and bright. “I'm going home.”

“Yes, Arthwr,” Merlin says, pulling on his own bridle so his horse eases into a gentler pace. “You are. You're going to claim your people, get your throne back, and everything you want besides.”

Arthwr drops his head. “I already have what I want,” he mumbles quickly, the words blurring one into the other.

Merlin's face warms. He doesn't say me too. He only nods, then knees his horse into a gallop that will get him to the shore, to the boat that will bear them to Britannia.

They board the ship, the Deuogdonion, soon after. It's a cold morning in early March.


	3. Chapter 3

Brtiannia, May, 43 AD

 

The torchlight flickers off the walls of the stairwell, creating a series of eerie shadows that play along the length of the studded trapdoors that line the landing. Its guttering glow blinds Merlin for a moment. When he blinks again, he makes out the grooves in the treads and the gaps in the masonry. Air whistles through them with all the harshness of night. With his soles he feels the dirt underfoot, the tiny debris. He goes slow so as not to make noise. To guide himself upstairs, he places a hand flat on the wall, feels the damp of it, the coruscation of old stone. “Artwhr,” he whispers, “are you sure this is the right way?”

Arthwr turns. Merlin catches a glimpse of him in the quivering light, the coils of the hood he's wearing, dove grey, covering his features, hiding the glimmer of his blade. “Merlin, I was born in this castle.”

“Yes, but,” Merlin says, “have you ever sneaked into the soldiers barracks before?”

“Who says I didn't?” Arthwr says, flashing him a wink that does a lot to dissolve the tension in Merlin's guts. 

“Did you have a special reason to do that?” Merlin asks, his eyebrows going up. “A special friend, perhaps?”

Arthwr huffs, his lips curving. Merlin's not about to probe but he does intend to pull Arthwr's leg a bit. He can't however, because a beacon of light arces across the stair. The trampling of feet resounds hollowly across the passageway at the same time light floods the corridor.

“A patrol,” Arthwr says, flattening him into a tiny alcove, so that Merlin's finds himself chest to chest with Artwhr. By then they're both trying not too breathe too loudly. “They must have changed the shifts. They wouldn't have been here at this hour when my father was alive.”

Merlin nods. The voices coming from the corridor above sound louder. Laughter laces them. When words do stand out, Merlin knows the patrol is close.

Arthwr tenses; his biceps bulge. Merlin can't tell whether that's because of a pang of recognition – whether he knows who those soldiers are – or because he fears detection. He can't ask either, not now. So he concentrates on being as quiet as a mouse, which isn't easy when all his focus is on staying silent. It's challenging rather. He suddenly becomes aware of a thousand little things, like the itching on his arm and in his nose, that nearly compel him to scratch, sneeze. In an attempt to stave noise off, he pictures a blank wall. Nothingness. He tells himself his nose is not prickling, that he has no such urges whatsoever. But it is and he does. He sneezes. At the same time he goes off, he manages to whisper out a spell. The noise doesn't carry at all, it extinguishes itself life a flame under glass. 

Arthur lifts his shoulders in a release of breath.

The bubble of soundlessness pops just when the tramp of feet dies down and the patrol moves along another corridor. 

Arthur arches an eyebrow and says, “Thank the gods for magic, eh?”

Merlin botches a smile. Arthwr's own lip twitch; his thumb rubs circles in Merlin's upper arm. He rolls his eyes, but his mouth stretches outwards till there are laughter lines carved in his cheeks. He sucks in a breath, sharp and sudden, leans close, so that his nose brushes Merlin's, the very tip ghosting silkiky against his skin. His his fingers dig in more sharply, and his nostrils flare. Then, with a quick motion, he tears away, dragging Merlin the rest of the way up the stairs. “No time like the present.”

They walk the length of the dark passageway, moving in the direction opposite the one the guards took. The passageway is dotted by closed doors that come with sturdy iron locks and sturdier hinges. The only light bathing the hallway emanates from a flambeaux burning at the very end of the corridor.

“Four, five, six,” Arthwr counts, though Merlin's not sure whether he's keeping track of the steps he's s taken or the doors he's passed. “Six,” he says again, then lifts his fist to knock.

The door opens. A man clad in nothing but leggings fastened to the knee stands in its shadow. He's tall, taller than Merlin, wider set. His beard is lush but carefully trimmed, in no way ostentatious. The lighting's not bright enough for Merlin to establish the colour of his hair, both facial and non, though it's not dark. At sight of them, the man opens his mouth, blinks several times, squares his eyes onto Arthwr. “Arthwr,” he says, then his frame goes smaller, he bows, and adds, “Sire, I didn't... didn't know you were, well, alive.”

“Leon, I won't be alive for long if you don't let me in,” Arthwr tells Leon, though he's wearing a very pleased smile even as he says that.

“Right,” Leon says, widening the door, so Merlin can spy his chamber. “Come in, Sire.” Leon looks at Merlin. “And your companion is welcome as well.”

Arthwr's hand lands heavily on Merlin's shoulder. “This is Merlin,” Arthwr says, pushing him inside. 

The door thuds shut behind them.

Leon puts on a tunic, then gestures for Arthwr to take a seat at his table. Only when Arthwr has seated himself, does he sit too. He takes the edge of his bed for that. 

Merlin stands behind Artwhr, in the shadows that loom in the corner of the room.

Leon says, “I was sure you were dead.” He licks his lips. “The king--”

“My uncle,” Arthwr interjects.

Leon nods. “After you disappeared...” Leon lowers his eyes. “King Agravaine said you had been ambushed and kidnapped. He showed us a piece of your cloak to prove you were gone.”

“He took part in that ambush,” Arthwr says, his jaw sticking out like a bull dog's. “I saw him. He kept to the fringes, not taking part in the attack, but making sure his troops killed my guard.” Arthwr's gaze is flinty. “I remember he was on horseback.”

“He assured us the Catuvellauni had had a hand in the attack you fell victim to,” Leon says, shaking his head, his body looking smaller as he hunches in on himself.“I and a few others asked to go on a mission to rescue you.”

Merlin raises his eyebrow. Arthwr scoffs. "I bet he didn't let you."

Leon reprises his tale. “The K-king said we shouldn't risk our lives like that. That you wouldn't appreciate it. Before we could set out he organised a levy of his own men and went looking for you.”

“Let me guess,” Merlin says, stepping forwards. “When he came back he said that Arthwr was dead.”

“Indeed,” Leon says, flushing. “That's what he said. He had your sword and your horse. I knew you wouldn't give them up if you were alive, so I believed him. When you failed to return I was all the more convinced.” Leon stands. “I thought... I thought that if you were alive nothing would stop you from getting back to your people.”

Arthwr flinches hard, sucks in a breath. His head drops and he says, “I would have, if I could.”

“I understand.”

Since Arthwr won't say as much, Merlin speaks up for him. “He was enslaved. In Rome.”

It's Leon's turn to wince, to pale. “I'm... I'm sorry, sire.”

“You had nothing to do with it.”

Leon's eyes widen in horror; gouges form in his cheeks. “If I had known, I would have died trying to stop it. Like valiant Geraint did.”

“I believe you.”

“But when you failed to come back,” Leon says, his head tilted down and forward, his words coming quick, “I turned to your only relation for guidance, good rule. With you gone, he was next in line and the legitimate authority, or so I believed." He raises his head, his shoulders going up with the motion. "I obeyed him the way I would you.”

Arthwr starts speaking. Merlin does too, because Arthwr's too kind, too generous. “What matters is the choice you make now. Are you going to be loyal to Arthwr now that he's back? Will you take action on his behalf?”

Leon looks from Merlin to Arthwr, as if to verify Merlin's role in all of this. He must have taken in Arthwr's raised eyebrow, for he stops doing that, and goes back to discussing the topic at hand. “Of course, but we must be circumspect. Your uncle in now King and therefore represents the law.”

“He is a king but an unlawful one,” Arthwr says, low though his words sound remarkably clear.

“Undoubtedly, but we should use caution here,” Leon says, holding a palm up. “You've been gone for more than two years. And during all that time he's ruled your people. In the eyes of many he's the King.”

“By means of foul play,” Arthwr acknowledges, with a stiff little nod, one that gives away how tense he is.

“That is immaterial, Arthwr,” says Leon. “He commands the garrisons and the troops. He has made allies among the noble chieftains. He has taken your land and employed your retainers. That's a huge back up net.”

Arthwr sighs, shifts his weight, but holds his head up. “I understand that. What I'm asking now is: will you help me?”

“Of course,” Leon says, his head bobbing up and down. “But we must figure out a way for you to claim the throne that doesn't entail you dying at the end of Agravaine's sword.”

“You think Agravaine has got the loyalty of my people, that they would accept that from him?”

Leon scratches his forehead. “No, he's not a beloved king.” He hums, and creases appear on his brow. “But those who accepted his rule will fear repercussions from you.”

“I am ready to promise there won't be any such repercussions,” Arthwr says, tipping his head up, eyebrows up. “That's a solemn promise.”

“I believe you,” Leon says, “and those who know you well will too. But those who've staked their interests with Agravaine don't. They might think it safer to back him rather than an ousted monarch who may be plotting revenge against them for their switching of sides.”

“So what do you suggest I do?” Arthwr says, exhaling harshly. His face is drawn, tight, and his eyes have lost the shine that they had acquired ever since he landed in Britannia. “What is the most prudent course of action, wise Leon?”

“Let's find you some supporters,” Leon says, walking to the table and pouring a measure of some ruby red wine into two cups. A beat later he lifts his head, his eyes landing on Merlin. He fills a third. “Friendly nobles who'll side with you rather than Agravaine.”

Artwhr dips his chin, a shaft of moonlight highlighting his profile, casting one half in shadow. “And who may these nobles be? A lot of my most loyal warriors died when Agravaine took out my guard.”

“Yes,” Leon says, gulping down the contents of his cup and smacking his lips. “That is true. But you still have many loyal friends amongst the younger nobles. Those who, like me, grew up side by side with you.”

Arthwr fingers his cup, doesn't drink. “Do I still have friends among my people, Leon? Do I?”

“Yes, sire,” Leon says, puffing his chest out so that the man suddenly looks larger, as though he can take on any challenge. “Many.”

“I wish it were so,” says Arthwr, “but after all this time... After all this time how can I be sure?”

“We'll organise a secret meeting,” says Leon, eyes lighting up. “We'll show your closest friends that you're still alive and well, the legitimate king.”

“Are these people trustworthy?” Merlin asks, because he wants to be sure Artwhr won't be walking into a trap.

“Yes,” Leon says. “I know these people through and through.” He coughs. “Unlike you.”

Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but Arthwr splays a hand on his chest, preventing him from either voicing his reply or stepping forwards. “I trust Merlin with my life.”

Leon inclines his head, his eyes rounded a notch. “Yes, of course... Sire.” He clears his throat with a subtle grunt. “As I was saying, I'll organise this meeting. Once your friends know you're alive, they'll close ranks around you. No point in facing Agravaine till then.”

Arthwr drinks. “When and where?”

“Give me a few days,” Leon says, all business. “I have duties I have to see to. My absence would raise suspicion. But I'll contact the others as soon as I can.”

“Good,” Arthwr says. “We'll be waiting for word from you.”

Leon moves over to Arthwr and grasps his forearm. “Everything will work out, Sire,” he says. “That's a promise.”

 

****

 

The forest is tall and dense. The trees are thick, flaunting massive limbs that shoot outwards and towards the sky like sturdy pillars. Their branches lock together, shutting out the sky. The light that does filter through the barrage of foliage overhead is dappled with the shade pattern of the leaves, fallow, tremulous, spotted with a thousand tones of green and yellow. Dense conifer groves crowd each other in a close intermingling of boughs and roots, a teeming of thin leafy heads. 

Creepers festoon the trees, interconnecting them, twining plants together as they lie suspended in long tendrils, knotted one to the other by way of their bases, their long stems. 

Dense vegetation grows everywhere, it flourishes in a collection of shrubs and in an outstanding growth of wild-flowers: blooming snowflakes and gentian, dog roses and water violets. The sweet fragrance of them fills the air, coats it with their taste. 

The air is tangible with humidity too, the earth rife with it.

These woods are, after all, lush with secret springs, with water courses burrowing through rock and under hill, brooks bubbling strong and noisy, racing over beds of stone, of shingle. 

The abundant humidity must have helped generate the layers of fog forming just above ground. Tendrils of it curl around the horses' hooves, make the forest floor invisible. 

The notion that he can't actually see where they're going, that the road is shrouded with a chilly mist that coats everything and makes him blind to danger, fills Merlin with tension and makes his back tighten and his muscles stiffen.

“Are we close?” Merlin asks, as he nudges his horse close to Arthwr's with a clack of his tongue.

“Mithian's dun lies north of the border with the Cantii,” Leon answers, tugging on his reins so he can bring his mount level with Merlin's. 

“Which means we're a few hours short of our goal,” says Arthwr, clucking his tongue at his mount. 

“Oh, I was hoping we were closer,” Merlin says, stretching in the saddle. “Ouch.”

“Are you all right?” Arthwr asks, flicking him an assessing look.

Merlin doesn't want to talk about the strange gut feeling he has, the odd sense of forboding that has taken hold of him. They haven't been followed. Both Leon and Arthwr are military men and would know if they had. Speaking up about his baseless hunch would definitely sound stupid and probably be counterproductive. So he hedges. “I'm just a little tired.” He rolls his shoulders, arching his back, so that his chest sticks forward. “Nothing more.”

Arthwr studies him carefully. “We're halting,” he says, pulling up the reins to slow his horse. “Taking an hour break.”

“Arthwr,” Leon says, flicking Merlin a dubious sideways look from his perch on the saddle. “We ought to push forwards, the Princess will be awaiting us.”

“We're stopping,” Arthwr says, wrapping and re-wrapping a short length of the reins around his palm. 

Leon rounds his mouth. “We have no escort, Sire. With Agravaine king we're as good as in enemy territory.” He makes a show of surveying the woods. “We oughtn't stop just because Merlin is tired. Your safety comes first.”

“Leon,” Arthwr says, his jaw setting, “we're taking some time out.”

“Yes, sire,” Leon says, ducking his head.

They stop close to a shallow river meandering in light blue lines that cut across the forest. While Leon waters the horses, Arthur goes over to Merlin. “So how are you doing?”

Merlin smiles though the smile pulls at his face in ways that aren't very pleasant. “I'm all right,” he says, with a rise of his shoulders. He feels absurdly sheepish about having caused them to halt, though the odd feeling knotting his body tight hasn't lifted. “Not too bad. I suppose I'd better have a walk around, loosen my muscles.” He works his shoulders in an attempt to achieve some manner of relaxation. “I promise I'll be quick.”

“I'll be waiting here,” Arthwr says, cupping his shoulder, kneading it as though he's trying to undo the tension in his muscles.

Merlin feels his cheeks hollowing into dimples. “Thank you. For getting it. Thanks.”

Buoyed by Arthwr's support, Merlin wanders off into the woods, walks along narrow but beaten tracks, where the undergrowth is thick but not too tall. All the way he works his muscles loose, rotating his arm, and bending his neck this way and that. Splashes of green and russet flash past either side of him. Swathes of darkness peek through from between the looming trunks.

His muscles loosen a little, though he's still feeling jumpy. His skin pimples, his heart beats fast for no reason at all, and his senses go on high alert.

He walks some more, tries to blank his mind of thought.

Just when Merlin considers turning around to rejoin Arthwr and Leon, he hears the chant. It's low, deep. Merlin shakes his head. He's alone. He can't be hearing voices because no one else is around. But he is most definitely making them out. It's indisputable. Though he doesn't understand the words, he gets their meaning, can sift it in some kind of instinctive way. He pushes forwards, angling his head this way and that so as to catch a snatch of the song. It wells, profound and strong into his conciousness, leading him onwards at the urging of its notes. 

Under their push, he makes it into a clearing. It's perfectly round, less than a league wide. It's intersected by trails that stretch out in different directions, the four points of the compass. They thin in the distance, narrowing into points obscured by veils of vegetation. To the south access to a small grove is barred by a thick web of branches, some of which grow wild berries, some of which sprout wild thorny flowers. The whole area is lit up by a glow of its own, one that seems to come from the earth, from the air, from the sky. Luminescent yet pale. Even so the clearing is shrouded in a mist thicker than any Merlin has encountered so far. It seeps like a milky wreath from the pores of the earth and climbs upwards. 

Out of the mist banks a woman emerges. She's beautiful, with hair dark as night and eyes the colour of the forest. Some of her plaits are died green, others twisted tight, with leaves worked in her tresses. The small ones are mostly all blade. She's wrapped in the coils of an ample woollen dress of an indeterminate colour that could be either black or an intense dark brown. The garment is frayed at the hem, but the bodice is ornate, rich, spun with thread of silver. When she sees him, she lifts an eyebrow. “Emrys,” she says. 

“You were the one,” Merlin says. “You were the one who got me here.”

“Yes,” the woman says, raising her chin. “I did.”

“Why?” Merlin asks, wrinkling his forehead. “And who are you?”

“I'm Morgana, known as the fay,” Morgana says, standing tall. “High priestess of the triple goddess, guardian of this forest.”

Merlin has heard of the cult of the triple goddess before though his people venerate Brigid rather than a tripartite entity. “All right, nice credentials, but why have you summoned me?”

“Because I had a dream.”

Merlin bites his lip. “A dream?”

Morgana walks towards him and it's only then that he notices she's barefoot. “A prophetic dream.”

“About what?” Merlin asks, not sure what she's going on about, whether he believes her. Dreams are so nebulous, always so hard to decrypt.

She covers his temples with her hands, says, “About the coming of a great evil.”

Merlin grows cold. It's as if his bones are freezing, getting brittle with the cold, as if they might snap like twigs. “I—uh, what have I to do with it?”

“You must be aware,” Morgana says, digging her fingers in. “You must watch out.”

“Awarre of what?” Merlin fires. “What for?”

“I have sought allies,” Morgana says, evading his questions. “I have sent out messages. But in the meanwhile you must hold fast. You must oppose the darkness that's coming.”

“What type of darkness?” Merlin asks. He would love to make sense of all this. While he's filled with a sense of foreboding, he can't tell where it's coming from, if this woman lent it to him or if it's something seeping off the earth. Either way before he commits to promising something, he'd like to know what he's facing, what he's really vowing to do. “I need to know.”

“You'll know the shape and form of this threat when the wind blows it this way,” she says, kissing his lips softly. “May the triple goddess be with you.”

Merlin blinks and stumbles into the camp Arthwr and Leon have made.

“Merlin!” says Arthwr, stashing his leather flask back into one of the saddlebags. “Already back?”

Merlin looks back to the forest path. “I, uh, I think I... How long have I been gone?”

Leon looks up, arches an eyebrow.

“Two minutes at the most,” Arthwr says, his eyes widening before they thin again. “Why?”

“Oh I just thought I'd been away a little longer, an impression, so to speak,” Merlin says, eyes lighting on Leon and his sceptical face. He bounds over to Arthwr. “I believe I may need a drink, that's all.”

Arthwr digs the leather flask back out of the saddlebag and gives it to Merlin. Merlin grabs it, seals his lips around the rim and tilts it so the contents flood into his mouth, the water tasting warm but not stale.

“You were thirsty,” says Arthwr, pushing both of his eyebrows up. “Are you sure you're fine?”

“Yes.” Merlin nods vehemently. “Yes, I am.”

They rest for some time. Merlin sprawls down on the blanket. He wishes he could unburden himself, but with Leon present he doesn't feel he quite can. He'll tell Arthwr as soon as he gets a moment. For now he needs to calm down, breathe. Problem solving doesn't come easy when you're a ball of nerves. He watches the canopy of trees, the clouds scuttle past. He closes his eyes and finds Brigid's well. Grass bends in the breeze, a sea of marigolds pushes free of the soil, open to the sun. Apple trees bud, sprout tall, grow fruit. The air smells like honey and the water in the well ripples. The ripples sound like Brigid's laughter. Merlin smiles, opens his eyes, his heart beating more slowly and steadily. When he's less tense, he sits up, eats an apple, has more to drink. Everything's going to be all right. Must.

Before an hour has passed they're on the road again.

By nightfall they reach the dun. It sits on a green hill. Several concentric rings of earthworks, with stockades and defensive walls, envelop it. The timber-work is decorated with carvings: of birds, of crosses, of triskelions.

The ramparts reach high. A network of guards posted every few paces stands on a walkway that extends at top level over the roadway. Past the main gate and inside the fort there is a group of circular habitations, a tower looming high to the east. Timber houses, storage facilities and workshops stand out towards the centre of the enceinte. One of these buildings has the looks of a fortified mansion, with a bridge and crenellated towers around it.

Her cloak billowing after her like spun night, a lady glides out of the main entrance. Under her cloak she's wearing a pale dress made of light shiny fabric, a simple crown worked into her hair.

At sight of her Arthwr dismounts. He envelopes her in his arms, burying his head in her hair and rubbing her back. “Mithian,” he says.

“Arthwr,” she says, tilting her head back and looking up. “How I've missed you. I thought... I'd given you up for...” She shakes her head, worrying her lip. “It's been so long.”

“Yes,” Arthwr says, working the words past a swallow. “Yes.”

Mithian steps back, studies his face. Seemingly satisfied that he's well, she moves her gaze onto Merlin and Leon. She salutes the latter with a smile and curtsey, then says to Arthwr, “You haven't introduced me to your new friend.”

“This is Merlin,” Arthwr says, getting level with Merlin's mouth and splaying a hand on Merlin's knee, a little shy of the saddle. “He's the only reason I'm alive and well at all. He's my chosen companion.”

“I'm so glad to meet you, Merlin,” Mithian says. When Merlin gets off the horse, she bowS her head and bends her body in a lithe curtsey. “Please, do come inside. Dinner awaits you, as do your chambers.”

Claiming he has to hurry back to Camolodunum so as to maintain his cover, Leon leaves without dismounting at all. Arthwr and Merlin follow Mithian into the keep. She shows them around, climbing stairs flooded in sunlight, and guiding them along long corridors. As she flits from place to place, she explains the use of each room. She ushers them into the council chamber, the audience chamber, the library. “I remember,” Arthwr says, “from when I came visiting.”

“I know,” Mithian says, holding her skirts up as ascends another flight of steps. “But Merlin isn't acquainted with the place. I thought he should be, if he's to come often.”

“No, you're right,” Arthwr agrees, flashing Mithian a sudden smile. “He should be.”

“This is your chamber,” Mithian tells Arthwr, after they've covered most rooms on that floor. She opens a door and shows them inside. There isn't much furniture but the space is large, the ceiling high. Rugs and furs cover the floor, the bed, the back of chairs. Candles burn on every surface available. They're scented, emanating a sweet odour like fruit, like honey. “There is another chamber for Merlin but you can share this one, if you prefer.”

“Thank you,” Arthwr says, his Adam's apple plunging. “I know what you're risking, hiding us.”

“You know I couldn't have turned my back on you,” Mithian says thoughtfully, her gaze level. “You're mercifully alive and fighting to redress an injustice. As a friend I couldn't have stood by.”

“Mithian,” he says, pressing her hand.

“No,” Mithian says. “I know I'm right." 

“If I don't make it,” Arthwr says, seemingly scrutinising the interior of the room, though it's clear to Merlin he's really not, “you've put yourself and your kingdom in danger. If Agravaine stays on the throne, he'll use your hiding me as a reason to invade your lands.”

“Arthwr,” Mithian says, tilting her head back so she can meet Arthwr's roving gaze, “I know what I am doing, both as a princess and as a woman.”

Arthwr lifts her hand, skims the knuckles with a kiss. “I can only thank you for your help and protection.”

“It is nothing, just a gesture of friendship,” says Mithian. “Now let me leave you. You'll want to refresh yourselves.”

They do as Mithian suggested, washing off the worst of the sweat from the road. When they're clean, they change into the clothes she left for them. Merlin has never worn finer. The tunic is smooth and silken, the over-tunic colourful, threads of different hues interwoven into the twill weave pattern. The wool is soft, in no way prickly, with twisted yarn at the ends. “Oh, I feel like... well, not me,” says Merlin as he finishes tying off a belt.

“You look good.”

“Like I've been pampered?” Merlin asks, arms out so he can show Arthwr how ridiculous he looks in his finery.

“No, you just... look good,” Arthwr says, his eyes taking on a sweet, mischievous cast. He finishes buckling his sword to his belt, before marching over and kissing Merlin on the lips. He coughs, casts his eyes down, then up, the tilt of them the same as before. "Very much so."

Merlin feels a giving way of his heart, joy floods him, but then he remembers what happened in the afternoon, his encounter with Morgana, and sobers. “Arthwr, something happened today.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthwr asks, his brow creasing deeply. “Is that why you were acting so oddly this afternoon?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. “No, I don't know. I just know I met a priestess."

“A priestess?” Arthwr repeats, voice high. “Whenever did you find the time?”

Merlin lifts his shoulders to his ears. “She must have fiddled with our perception of time, or time itself, I don't know.”

Arthwr blinks twice, his pupils widening. “Is that... is that possible? With magic?”

“I suppose so,” Merlin says. “I think I can do it, so maybe so can she.”

“But what did she say?” Arthwr asks, reminding Merlin he's failed to convey the important part of the conversation he had with the priestess. “Why did she feel the need to speak to you?”

“She just warned me of a danger she says is coming our way,” Merlin says. “She was pretty vague.”

“And you believe her?” Arthwr asks, tilting his head. 

“I don't know her,” Merlin says, going back over his feelings on the subject, his impressions. “But she may be onto something.”

“Maybe she is,” Arthwr says, humming as he grinds his teeth together. “But I don't know, this warning seems to be so hazy that I don't think we should prioritise it over the threat that is Agravaine."

Merlin considers that for a moment. “No, no you're right. Agravaine comes first.”

Arthwr smiles, nods. “One thing at a time is all I'm saying.” He looks to the halved candle. “We ought to get a move on. Mithian will be expecting us.”

They have dinner in the hall. King Rodor sits on a throne like chair. He's grizzled, a little withered by wrinkles, somewhat bowed down by a stoop, but his eyes are alert, clever, and he welcomes Arthwr with kind words. As soon as they're done with the introductions, he starts sharing his memories of a very young Arthwr. Apparently the first time Rodor met him Arthwr was so small he didn't know how to greet a king. So, he tried to bow to him, which was unncessary since he was a prince himself. But again Arthur hadn't known that. Encumbered with a sword too big for his young years he had just tumbled down under its weight. The court had laughed. But Arthwr had picked himself up, dusted himself down, and completed the greeting, uttering a string of very formal salutes he'd clearly learnt by heart and that sounded very odd coming from the mouth of a child. The court had ended up clapping. 

By the time Rodor is done with the story, Arthwr is blushing, Mithian is avoiding his eyes, and Merlin is smiling from ear to ear. 

“That's such a sweet story,” Mithian says, taking the seat next to her father's, presiding over the meal. “But isn't it time for dinner? I'm sure you must be hungry.” She nods at the array of food present, roasted game glazed to a golden tint, pale poultry whose flesh is seasoned with herbs, sweet confections covered in honey. 

Since Merlin and Arthwr are indeed more than a little peckish and admit to it, they all tuck in.

Though they eat out of golden plates, there are precious few servants. 

“I'm sorry we can't offer you a proper welcome, Arthwr,” says Mithian, smiling a thin, embarrassed smile. “But we thought the fewer people in the know about your presence here, the better.”

“I'm grateful for your offer of asylum, Mithian,” Arthwr says in a steady, warm voice. “Far from me to criticise your hosting choices.” He puts his spoon down. “Mithian, you've gone above and beyond and this is really... I'm moved by your kind reception of me.”

Mithian nods, dabs at the tears in her eyes with the back of her hand. When she's steadier and no longer on the verge of tears, she speaks again. “Next time,” she says, holding a silver cup aloft, “we'll welcome you as King Arthwr of the Albionenses.” 

They raise their cups to that. More food is brought in. “I wish,” Arthwr says at length, that I could repay you for all of this. But I can't be certain I will be able to--”

“Arthwr,” Mithian interrupts.

Arthwr's palm goes up. “No, let me. I can't promise that I will be able to return the favour. But if I do get my throne back, I can assure you that you'll forever find an ally in the Albionenses.”

“Consider the Belgae,” Mithian says, getting a nod from her father, “your friends and allies, in this and all circumstances.”

They start a second libation. They eat some more because the food is tempting and plenty. Both Arthwr and Merlin have learnt not to take anything for granted, be it food, shelter or their continued survivial. Even when they're full, more courses roll in. But by that point neither Merlin nor Arthwr can ingest anything more. Since they're sated, conversation takes centre stage. They discuss the past, the harvest, the political situation, but not Agravaine, and not Arthwr's plans regarding him. 

When the meal is most definitely over, Mithian stands, a hand on her father's shoulder, and sings. She has no accompaniment but her voice is beautiful enough she can do without. She channel it into a chant that is sweet and pure and beautiful.

Her voice hits higher notes, softly but fully. It embraces the lower ones with passion. As she warbles on King Rodor falls asleep, Merlin gets a little misty eyed, and Arthwr nods his head in time to the music, blinking often, presumably so as not to tear up. They clap when Mithian trills the melody to a close. They compliment her when she sits back down. She colours but nods in acceptance.

When they retire, the moon is up high up in the sky.

Merlin doesn't use the chamber that has been put at his disposal, but rather shares Arthwr's. They're tired from the road, so they tumble into the bed still partway dressed. Before falling asleep, Arthwr smiles at him, does so with his eyes, rather than with his mouth. Then he's out like a light. Head on the pillow, Merlin closes his eyes too. 

The storm rages out at sea. The wind roars and shrieks. The gale feeds the waves, whipping them taller, higher and higher, a frothing black mass that towers over both bow and stern. Gloom descends. A rising blast fills the air; lightning splits the horizon line. The sky is lead, fraught with clouds that unleash a flood on both the sea and earth, flinging heavy billows both on the shore and the hull, dashing them into spray. A crow takes flight, wings like night. It turns its head. In its beady eye chaos and fire are reflected, the fall of the sword and the strike of the axe.

With a gasp, Merlin sits up.

“Merlin?” Arthwr's breath is hot on Merlin's shoulder. “Merlin, I had the most horrible dream.”

“It was probably the same as mine,” Merlin says, leaning his forehead against his knee, feeling the cool of the sheet. “I think my magic amplified it. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Arthwr says, kneading his shoulder. “So what sort of dream was yours?”

“I don't know,” Merlin says, looking up, squinting in the darkness the room is enveloped in. “Something about death and destruction. I just hope it never comes to pass.”

“Me too,” says, Arthwr kissing his shoulder, hand going up and down his chest. “Me too.”

 

**** 

 

The hall is long and rectangular, abandoned, littered with debris. The packed earth on the floor is starting to crack. The edifice is missing part of the roof. Where it has caved in, the rafters show, long oak beams that are fractured in places, jagged fragments of wood that look like the blades of a knife, like badly broken bones, reaching out into the void. Through the gap the sky is visible. It's grey today, streaked thorough by light clouds that glow a faint honey at their thinnest. The air is thick with a heavy mist that gleams silver. 

Inside the hall is bare. At one time it might have been an armoury or a granary, but its specific use is no longer fathomable. The walls are uncluttered, stained with damp, nearly black at the base and a solid russet brown at the top. Bales of hay are stacked up high against them, one on the other, like stairs pointing skywards. On the floor at their base a mound of loose hay lies scattered. Rounded shields hang on the opposite wall, the paint on them, contorting itself in spirals, wheel spokes, dragon heads, has washed off, looks like tears, like blood, like bile.

There's a table sitting in the middle, a huge round table, covered in a fine layer of grainy dust. Carvings run around the rim of it. Merlin can't make out the words because they're couched in Arthur's tongue, and an archaic version of it at that. The scroll-work, all whorls and flourishes, makes the inscription even harder to make out.

“It says magic,” says Arthwr, running his fingers along the scroll-work. “Now isn't that prophetic?”

“Or perhaps it's just an old table,” Merlin says, inching up an eyebrow.

“Perhaps,” Arthwr says, biting the corner of his lips. “Or maybe not.”

Ever since they left Gaul Arthwr has been wanting to broach the topic of Merlin's magic. Merlin's been avoiding it. Not so much because he doesn't want to show Arthur the ins and outs of it, but because he's not quite sure about all that destiny talk Alator waxed lyrical about. “Are you sure Leon's trustworthy?” Merlin asks instead, eyeing the empty hall. “He said he would organise a meeting and yet...”

“Leon's a friend,” Arthwr says, pacing round the table, adjusting his cloak so that less of him is exposed to the cold and damp of the place. “So, yes, I do trust him.”

Merlin ducks his head. “If you say s--”

Before he's finished his sentence, the door opens a chink and light arces across the table. Merlin looks up and his gaze pools on Leon and the group of men surrounding him. They're all young, strapping and muscular. As they file in, Merlin can take in the width of their chests, the reach of their arms, the span of their shoulders. In most cases it's impressive. Compared to them, Merlin looks like a scrawny thing.

Like Arthwr, some of the men are clean shaven, their jaws bare and chiselled. Others wear their beards like Leon does. They're short beards, carefully tended, as unlike those of the druids as any Merlin's ever seen. All of the new comers are clothed in expensive materials, died wools and leather, furs at their collars and wrists. 

On their chests they wear medallions, some bearing precious stones, gems the size of which Merlin has rarely seen. The pommels of their swords are richly ornamented, made of gold or silver, filigreed. The pommel-bar of one is decorated by narrow silver strips beaten into a chequered pattern. The scabbards that clothe the blades come in cloth of silver, of gold. 

“My friends,” Leon says, as they gather round Arthwr in a semi-circle. “I give you, Arthwr Pendraeg, alive and well.”

There's a chorus of gasps, and shocked little intakes of breath. Someone claps, the flat of their hands meeting fleshily. Someone else says, “I knew it. I knew someone like our Arthwr couldn't bite the dust so easily.”

Arthwr takes a step forwards, says, “I came very close to dying. I would have but for--” He saunters over to Merlin, places his hand on his shoulder. “Merlin.”

“Merlin?” a chorus of voices repeats, in tones of bafflement and curiosity.

“Yes,” Arthwr says, confirming the story. “Without Merlin's bravery and skills I wouldn't be here today.”

“Well, so Merlin saved you,” says one of the young noblemen. “But what happened to you before he did? How come you--” There's some miming on the man's part. “You vanished.”

Arthwr dips his head; his jaw works. “I'm going to be honest and open with you because I called you friends once and I hope to be able to do so again.”

Arthwr's words give rise to a murmur.

“What do you mean?”

“My disappearance these past two years wasn't voluntary,” says Arthwr, walking among his men, hand on the pommel of his sword as he parades before them, head high, body open. “I was attacked, my guard was killed, and I was sold into slavery.”

Eyes round as the men listen to Arthwr's words, to his tale.

“If fate had been unkind, I'd have died in the arena as a gladiator,” Arthwr says, his gaze sliding over Merlin even as he ambles among his people. It embraces Merlin with a softness that's a punch to his heart. So as to get it to beat more normally, Merlin has to focus on Arthwr's speech, the real import of it. “I survived,” Arthwr says. “And now I'm back. Because I belong to these shores. Because this is my place. Among my people. Among you." Arthwr's tone becomes more impassioned. "Because I have a duty by you. By this land." He momentarily stops pacing, tips his head back so he can look his men in the eye. "Above all I've came back so I could challenge the man who killed my friends, who were members of my guard, and avenge them. I've come back to defy the man who--" A moue of distaste crosses Arthwr's face. "-- usurped my throne. I've come back to get back what was unlawfully taken from me.”

“Arthwr,” one of the young nobles, a fair haired one with pale eyes, says, “are you saying what I think you're saying?”

Arthwr says, “I mean to say, Lamorak, that I know who attacked my guard on the day I was made a prisoner. And I call him a usurper.”

Leon lowers his head.

Arthwr hold his up high. “I'll name him here for you today. The man responsible for the death of my men as well as my fate was my uncle Agravaine.”

There are some gaps but more than one man doesn't look too surprised. Some faces tighten; some gazes become more shadowed, flinty. “You saw him?”

Arthwr nods. “He was there. He was one of the last faces I saw before I passed out, my comrades dying around me.”

“Is that why Leon gathered us here today?” Lamorak asks, other people nodding in the background. “So we can stand witness to that?”

“Yes,” Arthwr says. “I'm asking you to back my claim, my bid for the throne.”

Shouldering his way past the other men, one of the young aristocrats says, “I'm sure I speak for everyone here in saying we're glad that you're alive. We're certainly supportive of your cause--” He clears his throat and his voice lowers in pitch when he adds, “But how do you propose to challenge Agravaine when he has most of the older nobles wrapped around his finger, the ruling houses, the ones who can muster men and get them to fight in a pitched battle?”

Arthwr nods his head. “You're right, Bedivere. Agravaine has all of that on his side.”

“Then what do you propose we do?” a third man, a colossus with close cropped dark hair, says. “We're loyal to you, but acting against Agravaine would be suicidal, as the deaths of those in your guard proves.”

“I don't mean to defy Agravaine on the field of battle, Bors,” says Arthwr, his voice steady and strong as it fills the hall. “I don't intend to sacrifice other people's lives so I can claim the throne.”

“In that case I'm not sure I get your plan,” says Lamorak, seeking the gaze of his companions. “What does it entail? What part do we play in this?”

“Your loyalty,” says Arthwr, voice unwavering, his gaze spearing those present. “That's all I ask for, not as Uther Pendraeg's son, not as a claimant to the throne, but as the man you once knew.”

Leon puts his fist on his chest. “You have our loyalty, Arthwr.”

“But what do you mean to do with it?” Bors ask. “If you don't intend to hoist your banners, then I don't see how you can oust Agravaine?”

“I intend to challenge Agravaine to single combat,” says Arthwr. “I mean to do so in a public, crowded place with the people of Camulodunum as my witnesses.”

“Politic,” Leon comments. “That way he can't backtrack, or shove the news of your return under the carpet. People will see he lied about your death too.”

Arthur inclines his head.

“But what if he doesn't pick up the challenge?” Lamorak asks, his eyebrows climbing. “Agravaine is astute and he doesn't possess much personal courage.”

“He can't not meet the challenge,” says Arthwr. “Honour requires it.”

“Besides which,” says Leon, seeking the eyes of the others, “he couldn't keep the throne if he didn't. Politically, his position would become untenable.”

There's a general murmur of agreement, though Bors speaks up, “What if he cheats? What if he tries to kill you before you can meet him in open combat?”

“I'll protect him,” Merlin says, face flushing with heat when he takes in the incredulity of the young noblemen, their attempts to rein their laughter in. His head sinks forward. “Or die trying.”

“We will all protect him,” Leon says in a buoyant tone. “We'll make sure Arthwr gets his chance.” 

“We will,” say the noblemen en masse, unsheathing their swords and pointing them upwards, towards the roof, the blades glinting as a ray of sunlight barging in from the hole in the roof ricochets off them. Merlin's not sure what the gesture means other than that it seems ritualistic to him. But he can tell these young noblemen put stock in it. “We'll uphold the rightful king.”

Arthwr draws himself up, he rolls his shoulders back, placing his legs wider apart. “I promise I'll try and live up to your trust in me.”

“So when are you challenging Agravaine?” Bedivere asks, rubbing his hands together.

“I need to do it when half the kingdom's watching,” Arthwr says. “So I'll do during the Beltane procession.”

“So we reconvene on Beltane?” asks Bors, his forehead creasing under the push of his eyebrows.

“No,”Arthwr says, “A gathering of nobles would raise suspicion. I'll do it alone.”

“But how can you do that alone and stay safe?” one of the men, one who hasn't spoken before, asks.

“I have my methods,” Arthwr says, getting a nod from Leon. 

All the men in the room murmur to each other and bob their heads. Some inform Arthwr of their support. Others stay silent on that score but beg Arthwr to stay safe, not to trust people lightly. At last Leon breaks up the meeting. “I'll have to show up at the palace or the Kin – Agravaine – will get suspicious.”

“Until Beltane then,” says Lamorak, smiling at Arthwr with more ease.

Arthur tilts his head up and down in a show of assent. The fingers of his hands find the lip of his belt. “Until Beltane.” 

**** 

 

People flood the streets, crowd the balconies, the walkways. They nudge each other, talk in whispers, laugh and nod their heads. They're a swirl of colours, cloth of different hues enveloping them, making them look like mobile splashes of rainbow. The sun shines on them, brightening the hues of their garments, making them shine crisper, bursts of flame red, emerald green, ocean blue. Its glare lightens the dust on the street, the cobbles in the lanes. 

May flowers hang from doors, festoon windows and frame byres. They're draped in garlands loosely coiled around the neck of farm animals shepherds guide forward along the streets. Girls carry bunches of primroses and marsh marigold. Stall vendors give out rowan and hawthorn bouquets. Gorse and hazel sprigs decorate cloaks, tunics. Chains of abelias top the heads of children. 

Ribbons and bright shells decorate shop windows, stalls.

Every street has been garlanded. Each one has its own bonfire too. Flames leap tall, pale smoke spiralling skywards in thin helixes, roaring and crackling. Grass, moss and leaves have been piled together on top of the pyre. As they burn, these substances release a sweet, heady scent that lingers in the nostrils. Red embers glow at the base of the pyre; the wind blows them about, setting the air alight as if stars are shining on earth.

People gather around the bonfire, stand silhouetted against it. Some are watching it burn. Others are dancing jigs round it, restless, merry. Singers and musicians perform. The singers stand with their heads tipped back and their legs splayed wide, whilst the musicians embrace their string instruments. 

The procession starts at the mouth of the street. The king, Agravaine, leads it. He's sitting astride a horse apparelled in cloth of silver, trapped out in glittering harness. The saddle cloth, embroidered with roses, reaches almost to the ground. He's dressed in purple himself, a bejewelled sheath at his hip. 

Knights ride by his side, though a little behind, row upon row of them accoutred in splendid harness. They carry lances and swords, sit with their chests stuck out on their cantering horses. Sergeants in leather jerkins trail a little behind, keeping pace while on foot.

The procession advances to the middle section of the street, climbing the knoll that leads to the keep. Arms held out, clubs up, the sergeants keep away the most curious members of the populace, those who would try and exchange a word with the King, those who ask alms.

Arthwr pushes off the wall of the building he's been leaning against and stands in the path of the procession.

The instant he sees the obstacle in his path, Agravaine pulls on the reins of his steed and the horse rears. The procession stops. One of the sergeants pulls out his truncheon and points it at Arthwr.

Merlin balls his fists but doesn't move.

To a chorus of gasps from the crowd Arthwr lowers his hood, unsheathes his sword. “Agravaine,” he says, pointing his blade at his uncle. “I stand here as Uther Pendraeg's son to denounce you and call you a usurper.”

Agravaine clenches his jaw, his entire face tightening. He goes pale. “What is this nonsense?” he says, trying to check his prancing horse. “Who the hell are you?”

“You know very well who I am,” Arthwr says, raising his chin. “You knew me as a child. You watched me grow up. I am the man whose throne you stole." Arthwr smiles grimly. "After telling the people of Camolodunum I was dead, of course.”

“Guards!” says Agravaine, checking the horse he scared with the sharpening of his voice. “Arrest this man. He's offending me, dishonouring the memory of my real nephew, and besmirching the name of a hero so he can back up his absurd pretensions.”

Merlin feels himself seethe with indignation. He flexes his fingers, has to bite his lip so as to stay put.

“I'm Arthwr,” Arthwr proclaims, “son of Uther, and you know that very well.”

“Arrest him!” Agravaine repeats, his facial muscles freezing, till his features become a mask of immobility. 

The sergeants advance. Merlin springs forward too, but stops when he sees the crowd close around Arthwr, preventing the guards from touching him. A villager shouts, “I know him as Arthwr Pendraeg! I made saddles for the royal family. I saw them often. I recognise this man. I served him many times. He's the son of the late King!”

Voices rise in confirmation. It's a volley of 'Aye, I know him too,” and “I can tell he's Prince Arthwr!”

The guards falter, fall back, search each other's eyes for cues.

“Because of what you have done, I challenge you, Agravaine,” Arthwr says, “to single combat. It shall prove that the throne is rightfully mine.”

“What!” Agravaine says, affecting a laugh. “That is ridiculous. I won't acknowledge this unknown's claims, much less fight him for my throne!”

“Are you afraid to because you know you're in the wrong, uncle?” Arthwr says. “Because you know you tried to do away with me? Because you know you went for a throne you had no right to?”

Agravaine splutters. All traces of levity seep away from his face. “This is... this is ridiculous.”

“It isn't,” Arthwr says, squaring his jaw, his chest. “You sold me to the Romans, you had me enslaved.”

Agravaine scoffs. “Why would I do that? If I really, as you say, wanted to do away with my nephew?” He seeks agreement from the crowd, nodding to its members. “Why would I have spared him, let him walk away with his life?”

Arthwr doesn't deign that with a reply. “Be at the foot of the old kings' burial mound on the seventh day of the month,” he says, his sword pointing to Agravaine's heart. “Or consider your throne forfeit.”

It's Merlin's moment. He opens his hands. Lets them flame blue. Whispers words in his native tongue, words that unlock the powers of the earth to him. Mist seeps from the cobbles, laps at the foundation of houses. It rises like a veil, coalescing into a heavy pall that hangs motionless in the air. The mist envelops Arthwr and Merlin. They make their escape.

 

**** 

 

Merlin kneads Arthwr's shoulders, loosening his muscles. “I wish I could do something that wasn't watching,” he says. 

Arthwr, who was staring into space, veers his gaze onto him. He unclenches his jaw and smiles a sideways smile. “My people must see me win. No tricks.”

Merlin pushes his magic out of his palms in the form of warmth, lets is seep out of him and into Arthwr so he can be in top form. “No, I know, no tricks.”

“If they think I defeated Agravaine because of you...” Arthwr says, sighing the moment his shoulders finally unknot. “I'd lose everything, their trust. Do not interfere, please, not even if I'm losing.”

Merlin scrunches his face up against the golden haze of the sun, against the way his eyes get wet at the corners. “Even if you're about to die?”

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthwr says with a sigh. “Even if.” He shifts, lowers his eyes. “Or I'll never be the Albioneses' rightful king,” he says softly. He lifts his gaze. “Do you understand my need for you not to interfere?”

Merlin nods, worries at his tooth, his sight now misty, no matter how much blinking he does. “Fight well,” he says, his voice cracking as though it's the last of it, swallowing back against the lump in his throat.

Arthwr clasps Merlin's forearm tight, steps forwards and into his arms, his mouth to Merlin's ear, his breath ghosting on his earlobe, stirring the hair framing it. He exhales, awakening tiny tremors that skim Merlin's skin, make it pebble. “Once I've won, I'll come back to you, that's a solemn promise.”

Arthwr's words pluck at Merlin's heart. His chin trembles, he breathes out so his voice can come out steady. “All right then. I believe you.”

“Whenever have I lied?” Arthwr asks, as, palm rounded around his pommel, he backs away towards the lists.

The slanting light of morning casts long shadows across the plain at base of the mound, where the dead chieftains of the Albionenses are buried, and across the tall grass sprouting at its base. 

Merlin thinks he can ear the dead's silent congress, the whisper of their voices coming from behind the veil. He does his best to ignore it, to concentrate on what's about to happen, and not on its calls. Eventually he successfully manages to tune it out. He looks up then; the sky above is lightly veiled with a luminescent haze. The few clouds that dot it never coalesce. Good. Arthwr won't have to negotiate mud or fight in too adverse conditions.

 

Files of people stand either side of the impromptu field of battle: commoners, chieftains, Agravaine's guard, Leon's men, the young nobles supporting Arthwr. Everyone's come to witness the outcome of the duel, though some take more active part in the proceedings. The men at arms are keeping the populace from flooding the lists. They also hold the path clear for Arthwr, the glare of their chain-mail blinding.

 

Agravaine rises from his kneeling position. “I'm ready to prove my point,” he says, turning around so he can address both files of bystanders. He points to Arthwr. “I'm ready to demonstrate that that man is not my nephew, but an upstart lookalike who's accusing me of the most heinous of crimes.”

Some onlookers boo; others cheer him.

Agravaine unrolls a scroll he had tucked in his belt. “This is a letter from Rome,” he announces. “They say: as per the news conveyed to us through diplomatic despatches, we believe Prince Artorius, son of Uther Pendraeg, to be dead. The Prince was never on Roman soil, nor enslaved, nor our unwilling guest. We believe Prince Artorius to have died in a border skirmish with the Catuvellauni, as our ally, Agravaine, King of the Albionenses, confirmed to our ambassadors.” 

Merlin gapes, inhales hard. What the hell? Was the document Agravaine reading real? It doesn't make sense. The Romans had meant to use Arthwr against Agravaine, to have an in into the affairs of Britannia. Why would they change their minds now? Why would they back him? Had Agravaine offered something that had made the Romans change their plans? But what could that possibly be? With Arthwr back, Agravaine's positions had become more precarious, instead of more stable. If anything, he has less to bargain with now than before.

Agravaine finishes reading. “Signed Aulus Plautius, Commander of the Augusta, Hispana, Gemina, and Valeria Victrix legions.” To the furious whispers of the crowd, he rolls the scroll back up, hands it to one of his underlings, and joins Arthwr at the centre of the plain, taking position across from him.

Drums sound. Leon steps forward so he's at an equal distance from both contenders. He describes the nature of the charge Arthwr accuses Agravaine of, Agravaine's rejection of it. He lifts a ceremonial baton.

The crowd murmurs, the sound of it rippling around the base of the mound. Heads sway from side to side. Comments ripple, grow rife. _King Agravaine is an old man, he can't win. Is his opponent really Prince Arthwr? It certainly looks like him. Maybe, it's Prince Arthwr come back from the dead to avenge his own betrayal?_ Merlin shakes his head, focuses on Arthwr, on his stance, on his face. Right now it's a rigid mask: he has his jaw set and his eyes slitted either against the sun or distraction. Either way Merlin can tell that he's trying to focus fully on his opponent. 

In a similar spirit all Merlin has yyes for now is the action on the field. Everything depends on it.

Leon lets his baton fall. 

At the signal Arthwr and Agravaine advance.

At the first clash of steel, Merlin winces. This is the fight of Arthwr's life. And it's not going to be easy. Agravaine may not be as young as Arthwr, but he's agile, fast and cunning. 

To meet his uncle's incoming blow, Arthwr raises his arm, braces his wrist and turns into the stroke. He swings aside and against the tide of Agravaine's movement. The turn brings him about, sword low. As a consequence of the tussle, Agravaine stumbles forward, slicing his sword across air instead of flesh.

Stymied, he charges with his sword high, preparing an uppercut; Arthur forces his blade down with a quick block. Again Agravaine disengages. His sword whistles for Arthwr's neck, but Arthwr blocks the slash and jumps back. In a desperate attempt to down his target, Agravaine swings his sword forwards in wide arcs. Each time he brings it closer to Arthwr. 

Arthwr parries, vaults away. Raising his sword above his shoulders, Agravaine comes at him again, his blade commencing its downward spiral. Arthwr dives sideways and the weapon cuts through the air right where he had been standing moments before. Once he's in the clear, he moves around Agravaine, hoisting his own sword. It comes swinging down a hair's breadth away from Agravaine's shoulder. 

With terror in his eyes, his mouth tight, Agravaine ducks and scrambles backwards. He founds his footing again and slices at Arthwr, the tip of his blade narrowly missing his leg. Arthwr uses his own momentum and segues into a return swing, arcing the blow downwards. He only misses seriously wounding Agravaine by an inch. Some blood is spilt, gushing crimson, but the wound's not deep, not game changing. It only elicits a snarl from Agravaine anyway and then he's once more charging, blocking, retreating. 

Chasing hot on his heels, Arthwr advances, jabbing his opponent's wrist with the guard of his blade while punching him in the stomach. Agravaine's mouth falls open, but no sound issues. Arthwr dances back and lunges, his sword slicing across leather. No blood spurts forth, so he mustn't have touched flesh. The combatants grapple, wrestle free. Agravaine goes on what looks like a tactical retreat, one that Arthwr follows on.

His sword arces high and across in a powerful swing. With his own blade held at an angle, Agravaine meets the blow, inflicts one of his own. Arthwr ducks beneath it, barrels forward in a half stumble, lashes back out with the hilt of his weapon. 

He catches Agravaine right in the middle. 

Agravaine coughs, reels, blanches. He bows over ever so slightly. It seems as good an opening as anyone could get in the circumstances and Arthwr seems to realise this too because he twists back in the opposite direction, raising his fist as though delivering a vicious uppercut, while he aims his blade low, trying to cut Agravaine's feet from under him. 

Panting harshly and with his mouth open, face twisted in pain, Agravaine hops back, staggering as he gets his bearings again. He looks as though he's nearly done for, his teeth clenched, his eyes nearly shut, a myriad lines forming around them. His face is patched with high colour. Maybe he'll just keel back and this will all be over. But, no, Agravaine keeps standing.

Arthwr is showing signs of fatigue too. He's breathing fast, wincing, and his movements have slowed down. Despite that his deft handling of the sword advertises he's not quite expanded the last of his energy yet. 

From that moment on the fight takes on a different, slightly slower pace, the fury of the initial attacks gone. This duel is not going to be decided in its first few minutes. 

Arthwr and Agravaine go at it again. They exchange several strikes, their blades clashing, quivering as they meet, until their swords lock together, cross against cross. 

Merlin's heart thumps hard at sight of the clinch. Such close quarters are dangerous. 

Arthwr extricates himself by planting his foot at the centre of Agravaine's chest, kicking him backwards. Agravaine staggers. Arthwr gains ground, slams the flat of his blade against his uncle's chin. Agravaine rocks backwards, works his jaw. Merlin hopes the blow has dazed him enough for him to forfeit the trial, but Agravaine doesn't go down. Instead he grits his teeth and shakes his head. 

Arthwr uses the pause in the proceedings to wipe his brow from the rivers of sweat that must be blinding him, the tip of his sword buried in the grass-covered turf. Before he's quite done dabbing and mopping, Agravaine rushes on the offensive again. 

Arthwr stands still, feet planted wide apart, unmoveable. He doesn't heft his weapon, he doesn't get into a defensive stance. He keeps his eyes locked on his uncle, unflinching. His gaze, though, isn't on his sword, but on his face, doesn't waver from it. _No_ , Merlin, thinks, _what are you doing! Concentrate on the weapon arcing towards you!_ But when the thrust comes, Arthwr's ready to sweep it aside. Merlin doesn't know how he's managed to, maybe something in Agravaine's expression or body language gave away his intention, but he has. Before his uncle can recover, Arthwr thrusts with his own sword, snapping Agravaine's in two.

Agravaine tilts his head to the side, observes the stump in his hand with a mixture of stupor and anger etched on his face before hurling the object away from him. 

Arthwr backs away, says, “It's over uncle. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Never,” says Agravaine. “I've worked too hard to get this far, rule this kingdom.” He unsheathes a poniard. “I am its true king.”

Arthwr draws off, looks at the crowd around him, at his uncle, bestows a look on Merlin that Merlin can't interpret. Determination is scored across his face. His jaw is set, his teeth clenched. The veins on his neck and upper arms protrude like ropes, he's gripping his sword so hard. Merlin shakes his head. Arthwr breathes out, his whole body rising with it. His gaze mellows, comes alight with a look Merlin feels is designed for him, somehow. His lips quiver into a half smile that makes Merlin's heart pound in his throat, but the moment breaks, and Merlin is left experiencing pure panic. Lips settling into a grimmer cast, Arthwr takes a few quick strides forward, so the noblemen that came with Agravaine can see him, and tosses his sword at their feet. 

The crowd, peasants and nobles alike, no matter the affiliation, gasp. 

Merlin mutters through his teeth. “No, you noble idiot, no!”

Agravaine gawps for a few moments, taken aback himself, then his eyes narrow with calculation. His slump dissolves and he throws back his shoulders, a smirk unfurling on his lips. 

Arthwr pulls his dagger from his belt. He and Agravaine dance close to each other again, circling each other as they seek an opening. They advance and draw back, feinting and ducking when a blade zings too close to their bodies. 

The sun climbs. The air becomes hot, so much so that the combatants' bodies get coated with sweat, their brows shiny, their hair plastered to their skulls. 

Even so they go at it. Their daggers cross, sending sparks out. The men spin around, in and out of each other's reach, parring, lunging, hacking. They probe at each other's defences, jabbing, countering one another's move again and again. Agravaine may be winded, but Merlin can see that he received formal training, that he knows what he's doing and that age is not that great an impediment for him. He's got good form, he's adroit, and knows what to do to put a stoke in Arthwr's wheel. Arthwr counters those moves with ease, but Agravaine's precise attacks are dangerous. One moment of inattention might cost them their lives.

The combat goes on and on, with each of the claimants trying to find a weakness in the other, each of them receiving their fair share of cuts and slashes in the process. Every time Arthwr takes a hit, Agravaine's mouth curls at the corners. Every time Agravaine does, Arthwr looks grimmer. 

Merlin just holds his breath every time Agravaine pulls off a hit. The sight of Arthwr's blood makes him light headed with apprehension. His fists curl and his magic swirls at his fingertips, itching to protect Arthwr, to be used on his behalf. But even though Merlin wants to use his powers to heal, to repulse Agravaine, he reins them in. He won't let Arthwr down like that. He won't. Not unless there's no other option. 

It isn't an easy choice. Agravaine is so wily with his bluffing that he's dangerous. Because of his caginess Arthwr's on the defensive now. Agravaine looks desperate too, face set in a rictus, and he looks as though there's nothing he wouldn't try to win. As a matter of fact he's pressing harder now than he was an hour ago. Merlin thinks that's because Agravaine's aware he can't last long, not against a much younger and more proficient opponent. 

It's Arthwr's readiness that sees him through the most vicious attacks, that spares him from being hacked open. With speed and agility he leaps out of range. He gains ground again and again, only folding into a retreat when Agravaine stabs around wildly. 

He's tiring though, Merlin can tell. At each jump and ducking motion Arthwr grunts; he hisses. Because of Agravaine's savage hacking he's lost a lot blood and his muscles must be pulling. He's not alone in that though. 

Agravaine looks like a corpse, face grey, cheeks hollowed, hair greasy with sweat, his mouth open as he wheezes. His judgement seems to have have become less keen too, his motions less confident, his movements much slower. Merlin's sure that he'll fall back, give up, declare the fight forfeit, if only to survive this, get away with his life. But in one last ditch effort he dashes forward.

He attempts a few darting attacks, opening a gash down Arthwr's arm that bloodies his wrist and his tunic, drenches the grip of his sword. Arthwr repositions his hand around the hilt, fingers scrabbling for purchase, attacks, draws some blood in his turn. Then he sets himself in constant retreat, enticing his uncle forward. 

Agravaine is conserving his strength, huffing and puffing. His insistent forays get fewer and fewer.

“Come on, Arthwr,” Merlin says, “finish it. Come on.”

“I don't think he wants to,” Leon says, as he positions himself at Merlin's side. “I don't think he wants to kill him.”

“That's...” Merlin wants to say crazy, stupid, but the truth is it's just Arthwr. “Yes.”

“Unfortunately he has more nobility in him than his uncle,” says Leon. “I hope he doesn't pay the price for it.”

Arthwr is surely the stronger of the two, the fresher. But even he can't keep this up forever. Step by step Arthwr falls back, an inch or two here and there, the bare minimum necessary to avoid the blade, but a retreat nonetheless. 

In a succession of fierce rushes, Agravaine drives him backwards, dogging him obstinately. He's trying to push him towards the line of men framing the field, but Arthwr doesn't let him do that. He leaps clear of the trap, attempting to make for more open ground. But Agravaine continues chasing him, pushing him towards the attendees. 

“He's endangering the onlookers,” Merlin says, gaping at the ongoing action.

“To be honest,” Leon says, twisting his mouth. “I would have expected nothing different from him.”   
Merlin makes a face, seethes with rage, bur refrains from commenting because he needs to pay attention to what's going on. 

Both Agravaine and Arthwr seem to have come to an impasse, to be caught in a game of tag that doesn't allow them much leeway for decisive action. With only daggers any forward motion, any close quarter fighting, could be the death of them. 

The crowd watches intently, responding to the action with collective releases of breath. 

From his position mid field, Agravaine vaults back. Instead of chasing Arthwr, he discards his dagger, and with a cry of elation grabs one of the bystanders' sword and unsheathes it. “Now let's see who wins this!” he says, triumph in his voice as he holds the newly acquired weapon aloft.

A murmur of indignation rises from the mass of onlookers. “He can't!” Merlin tells Leon, chomping at the bit to have someone stop the goings on or do it himself. “That's foul play.”

Leon sticks his arm out to prevent Merlin from bursting forwards. “It must play out now. No one ever laid down any rules. If Arthwr wins by default because of foul play, and leaves Agravaine still standing, Arthwr will never be regarded as a legitimate king.”

“But that makes no sense!” Merlin says, cheeks smarting with indignation. “Agravaine cheated! Can't they see that that proves Arthwr's point!”

“Agravaine isn't dead though, wasn't defeated,” Leon says. “And that's all that matters. Arthwr must win fair and square.”

Merlin simmers down, his eyes back on the field of combat.

Agravaine straightens, twirls his sword with a flick of his wrist. “Now, my dear nephew,” he says, his eyes are alight with a savage sort of glee, “let's see who has the upper hand and who ends up as food for crows.”

He closes in on Arthwr and with a rotating motion of his sword, which has greater reach than Arthwr's short blade has, easily disarms him.

Amid gasps from the onlookers, Arthwr's dagger falls with a thud onto a patch of taller grass.

With his face set in a snarl, Agravaine lifts his sword and Merlin knows that in a second or two he'll be bringing it down to kill Arthwr. 

Merlin is aware he can do nothing about it other than watch it happen or break the promise he made Arthwr.

Agravaine's sword starts coming down.

 

****

 

The sword comes crashing down, but Arthwr leaps before it can cleave him in two. Merlin exhales a breath of relief, but his shoulders soon slump. Although Arthwr's momentarily safe, he's still weapon-less and Agravaine is still doggedly going after him.

Agravaine hacks left, right, left. Arthwr ducks, right, left, right, legs bent, quick on his feet. 

Witnessing Arthwr's attempts at evading death is quite a painful ordeal for Merlin. Nothing's ever been quite like this, nothing has ever sent his heart so close to stopping or crashing for beating so fast; nothing has ever made him feel so hollow as the powerlessness he's now experiencing. Bound by the weight of his own promise, he can do nothing. Whatever happens, he must watch the duel unfold. He must bear witness and keep his powers in check. He owes it to Arthwr. 

Knowing that doesn't make things easier. Merlin palms his forehead, joins his hands in cupping his mouth. Watches as Agravaine goes for Arthwr, relentlessly slicing and hacking, pursuing his prey. “Surrender,” he tells Arthwr, “and I will give you an easy death.”

Arthwr doesn't answer, too busy dancing out of the way of a downward slice. When he realises he hasn't killed Arthwr when doing so seemed easiest, Agravaine shouts irately; he releases a sound that seems to come deep from within his chest and that gets distorted in his throat.

In his vehemence, Agravaine crashes his sword down towards Arthwr in manic swoops. He doesn't wound him, but in doing so he overextends himself. Using Agravaine's own momentum to his advantage, Arthwr launches himself at him in one agile bound. As the sword cuts downwards and inwards, Arthwr pits his whole weight against Agravaine's, twists his arm, keeps his uncle's sword away from his body. For a moment Agravaine and Arthwr strain one against the other, grunting, wrestling, feet seeking purchase on the ground in a slip sliding of soles. Neither gaining the upper hand, they go down in a heap of limbs, where the battle continues. Crushing large patches of grass under their weight, they kick and roll on the ground. 

For a few terrible moments Merlin can't tell who's going to end up on top, and where the sword is, whether either man has been wounded in the tussle. Their hissing and growling certainly makes it sound as though one of them might have been. But he can't see much apart from the two quickly moving bodies, which have now become a blur of colour and limbs, much less scan them for traces of blood. Fearful of the outcome, he clenches his teeth and locks his eyes on the action. 

At last something decisive seems to happen. Arthwr lands on top of Agravaine, manages to keep him down for longer than a few seconds, digging his knees in the ground. The soft earth forms hollows around them. 

Though Agravaine fights him off, Arthwr twists his sword arm and disarms him. The sun shines on him then, on the plain at the base of the mound, tints the grass a lighter colour, ricochets off an end of metal located a little to the side of the fighting duo. But it's not just any old piece of metal, Merlin realises, after he's almost dismissed the gleam that comes from it. It's the sword Arthwr discarded when he thought he'd first bested Agravaine. And it's there for the taking. It lies on the grass a few inches short of the combatants' position, of Arthwr's own hands. But Arthwr's so busy trying to keep Agravaine from incapacitating him that he hasn't noticed.

If he only would, then he could finish this. But he's trying to keep Agravaine from scrabbling at his windpipe, from kicking him, from finding an in that would allow him to reverse their positions, so of course he hasn't.

“Come on,” Merlin says. “Get that sword.” Then it occurs to him. Arthwr's asked him not to use any tricks to make him win. But not all uses of magic amount to trickery or bestowing unfair advantages. He mutters the spell under his breath, and the sword gleams much like it did when the sun hit it, except now it's doing so much more consistently, the artificial glimmer picking out the blue tones of the steel, the white halo of it. 

Merlin hears the metal sing, hears the gods that were present when it was hammered into shape push their voices into a chant. These voices ring out in his head in a storm of words like the elements coming together in a forge of fire. The blade shines like the sun rising.

When it does, Arthwr lifts his head and his eyes go round.

Striving forward, Arthwr reaches out for the sword, grabs the hilt. But he has no time to strike, because Agravaine flips them, pinning him down with his fists and his knees, throwing himself at Arthwr wholesale, pummelling his face, smothering him with a hand on his mouth. But Arthwr levers up his sword, puts it between them. With a gurgling sound, Agravaine topples over him, goes still. His legs twitch, then his limbs relax in some kind of heavy motionlessness that looks oddly unnatural, his sword loosely clasped in his hand.

A reddish pool widens on the grass, streaming forth in little rivulets that wet its blades and glue them together.

Arthwr tips his head back, eyes open, stare fixed and glassy. 

The crowd erupts in a chant and at first Merlin can't make it out because his ears are roaring, thumping to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Arthwr's sword sings, sings of deeds of glory, of old gods tied to the earth, and of possibilities. The hymns of the gods of the land fuse with the voices of the kings of the past, those in the mounds. They coalesce in a vortex of sounds Merlin can't really understand anymore. He feels that if he did, if he sifted the component parts of that chant, he'd put himself beyond the pale of this earth. He can see the veil between it and the netherworld thinning and billowing around him with its ghostly threads, so he stops trying to understand the chant, disengages, and that's when he parses what the people around him are yelling.

“All hail, King Arthwr! All hail, Arthwr, King.”

And it's then that he knows, that it really sinks in, Arthwr's fine and he's won, and his people are going to recognise him as king. 

The ground shaking with the thud of lances and shields impacting it to celebrate one of the combatants' victory, Arthwr bucks the corpse off him, and shakily comes to a stand, shoulders down, legs trembling under him. 

When the chant waxes to a deafening pitch, he looks up, his eyes widening in recognition of what's just happened. Pivoting on his feet, he lets his gaze roam over the files of spectators, lets those present study him in return. Everyone's acknowledging his victory, shouting his name, applauding him, even the chieftains and nobles who had come to support Agravaine. 

Slowly, as if dazed, Arthwr lifts his sword so the point is perpendicular to the sky. The light clouds part and the sun shines on the bloodied blade. “All hail King Arthwr,” the crowd once again shouts. “All hail Arthwr, King of the Albionenses.”

 

****

 

Sunlight splits the great hall in two, drenching the flagstones at their feet, picking out the pink hues in them until the rock slabs seem to burn. It shades the great chamber in a varied display of changing colours, gilding them with a lithe incisive crispness that burns itself on the eye in solid geometric shapes. It sets dust motes aglow. It lights on cheeks, caresses the contours of bodies, brushes over their backs, their necks, highlights profiles. 

Arthwr walks past two cordons of people and down the length of the hall. His cuirass gleams; his cloak burns the colour of the rawest flames. Its brushes over the floor, trailing after him like molten lava as he climbs the dais. He takes the crown from an official, a man in a white mantle and trimmed beard, holds it aloft for a few pregnant moments, puts it on his head, and turns around, the folds of his cloak billowing around him. 

The crown comes in the shape of a golden disc to whose circumference a number of roundels have been attached, each ornamented with triskelions and spirals centred with birds' heads and fine bead work. In the bosses enamel and jewel studs are set.

As Arthwr lowers it on his brow, the crown catches the light, which plays on Arthwr's hair too, creating a halo around his head, a ring of brightness that is almost blinding, like a brand new dawn.

The people in the hall start shouting, “Long live the King.” 

As Arthwr stands erect and still on the dais, the object of the crowd's attention, more and more people lend their voices to the chorus. 

Drawing a deep breath and pouring it all out of his lungs, Merlin joins the chant too, his mouth shaping the words, words that are already written in his heart, sealing it Arthwr's forever and ever.

The cheer rises up around Merlin, bursting forth to the exact same tune. Leon's yelling the words at the top of his lungs, and so are the young nobles, the older chieftains. 

Merlin's face flushes hot, his eyes dew up, and he claps and claps. The firm belief that they've made it – that Arthwr is finally back where he belongs, among his people, meeting his future head on – makes his spirit soar like the body of a bird in flight.

With a steady gait the newly crowned Arthwr retraces his steps, his courtiers closing around him. They spill onto the plain outside, the hill the keep is built on smoothing down into a plain as green as verdant lichen. 

The yard outside the great hall is teeming with people craning their heads to see their new king. Nobles and dignitaries swarm around Arthwr, signalling to him, seeking a word with him, acknowledgement, a look. Leon is fending off the most insistent now, warding Arthwr with his body.

He seems to be trying to shepherd Arthwr away from the crowd when a rider steers a be-lathered horse to the doors of the keep. When he reins the beast to a halt, he nearly falls off the saddle. “A Roman fleet has been sighted off the coast at Rotguidou,” he chokes out. “Eight hundred ships are about to lay anchor. They're preparing a landing.” 

 

**** 

 

Arthwr spreads the chart on the round table they've moved into the council chamber, points at a spot with his finger. “This is where the fleet, or part of it, was sighted,” he says, taking in the men standing around the table, Leon, Bedivere, Lamorak and Bors among them. “This is where they've likely chosen to make their landing and this--” Arthwr stabs at the map. “--is where I think they'll try to engage battle.”

“The confluence of the Medwaeg,” Leon says, furrowing his brow.

“It makes sense,” Arthwr say, “starting from there they can make headway into British territory.”

Leon nods. “So what do we do to stop them?”

“We meet them,” Arthwr says, “in open battle, here.” He looks up from the map, studies the faces of the men present. “That way we stop them from penetrating further inland and into our territory. That way we stop them from wreaking havoc on our lands, from killing our people.”

“The envoy said they sighted eight hundred ships,” Bors says, shaking his head. “That means...” He hums as he calculates. “Twenty thousand men!”

A murmur of indignation rises among the men gathered round the table.

“We can't meet twenty thousand men in battle!” Bors says.

Leon makes a face, drops his head, rubs at his beard with thumb and index. “That's massive, yes. We don't have enough men to oppose a force like that. Especially not right now with Arthwr fresh on the throne.”

“We need to buy time,” says Bors. “We need to parley with the Romans.”

“There's no parleying with the Romans,” Merlin says, taking part in the discussion for the first time. “Believe me, they were seeking to invade Britannia well before they actually took to ship. Two years ago Plautius and the Emperor were trying to use Arthwr as an in to butt their heads in British affairs.” Merlin still recollects that conversation well. “Acting as if they wanted to help Arthwr against Agravaine. Now they've made Arthwr their enemy, but their position hasn't changed. They want Britannia, and no amount of hashing it out is going to serve to talk them out of it.”

The men standing around the table murmur indignantly. Leon says, “With all due respect, Merlin, you may be Roman...”

“I'm of the Veneli,” Merlin interjects. “Not Roman. I only lived in Rome.”

“You may be well acquainted with Rome,” Leon says, to a chorus of agreement from his closest companions, “but that doesn't mean you understand us. That doesn't mean you're aware of the conditions our army rests in, or that you have a fair idea of the number of men we can reasonably be expected to levy at such short notice.”

Lamorak expresses his tutting agreement.

“Above all you're a civilian,” Leon continues, “so while we're grateful to you for saving Arthwr, we can't help but feel that you don't know what you're talking about. Beside that, you have no military expertise. Your lack of understanding makes you unable to see that we just don't have the resources needed to withstand a Roman attack.”  
“You do have them,” Mithian says as she strides into the room, accompanied by a young man dressed in a fine tunic and wearing soft, shiny leather boots. “You have my men at your disposal.” She smiles challengingly. “Although I'll retain command of them.”

“And mine,” says the young man who's come in with Mithian.

“Thank you, my lady,” Leon says, hand flat on his chest. “And you...” Leon says, addressing her companion. He squints. “You're...”

“I'm Adminius, Prince of the Cantii,” the man says. “The Romans have laid anchor by my coast, invaded my territory and I'd like to drive them out. But I can't do it alone. So I need you...” He seeks Arthwr's eyes “... King Arthwr, to be able to do that.”

Arthwr steps forward; he takes Mithian's hand and kisses it. When he's done paying his respects to her, he acknowledges the Prince with a nod. “I thank you for your help. But I must warn you, this is dangerous, for the both of you. You may not come back alive.”

“We never thought going to war would be easy, Arthwr,” says Mithian. “But we're both ready to provide men, chariots, and horses.”

“So Leon,” Arthwr says with a confident smile. “Do you still think we stand no chance of facing the Romans on the field?”

“It'll be difficult,” Leon starts cautioning them, but then Arthwr lifts his chin and Leon lowers his head. “But we can try making a stand.”

“Would you be happier with that notion,” Merlin says, his heart thumping loudly and clenching in on itself. “If I said...” He centres his gaze on Arthwr then, who raises his eyebrows in a question that's all but asked. Having breathed in and out and properly braced himself, Merlin finishes, “that I have powers that may help win us the day?”

All stares fix on Merlin. Under the weight of all those eyes, he sinks into one of the chairs placed around the table. He only belatedly realises he's taken the seat Arthwr said was labelled 'magic'.

 

~~~~ 

 

"One battle," Arthwr says to the men gathered in his tent. They're not wearing armour, nor bearing weapons, but they all look grim, because they know they will soon be wielding them on the battlefield, and that this may well be their last day on earth. “We only have one battle to make this good and spare civilian lives from the atrocities of invasion."

The men in Arthwr's retinue nod carefully. The breeze tosses the tent flaps but they don't notice. They only have eyes for Arthwr; they only have ears for what he has to say. 

"Even though we have the Belgae with us." Arthwr tips his head at Mithian. "And the Cantii--" This time he acknowledges Prince Adminius-- "I want you to know that the Romans will outnumber us. This time we're not fighting the Catuvellauni or any other small enemy tribe. This is not going to be a small scale battle of the type fought in my father's day. This time we have the might of Rome against us.” He takes a breath, though Merlin thinks he hasn't paused because he needs air, but because he wants to let his message sink in. "I've seen Rome. I understand its power, its magnitude. So I want you to remember that we shall be outnumbered. That we shall face obstacles we have little previous experience of." He speaks levelly and calmly, his eyes lingering on each person in the tent. "So if it goes badly... If the Romans take me..." He pauses, stands with his legs a little further apart. "I want you to fall back, entrench yourselves on the Tam and regroup. Don't try and rescue me. The Albionenses can thrive without me."

A cold sheet wraps around Merlin's guts, spreads to his bones. Even so he doesn't voice the fear that crystallises his body into stone. He owes it to Arthwr to accept his words and decisions the way he wants all his other men to and that is without outward protest. His body shuts down in a panic panic. Voices sound further away than they are. His organs clench. And his energies wane. But he doesn't show that. Instead, he gives the people in the room a wide smile, makes his shoulders go up, and says, "Let me do my thing on that Tor and the Romans will turn tail."

The others laugh. That's perhaps the reason why the commotion outside sounds far off at first. But then the noises of the scuffle do resound -- feet sliding onto hard ground, air whooshing, bodies impacting bodies – and it becomes clear something's going on in the immediate vicinity. “I said we want to talk to Nemo and we will!” a voice says, sounding put upon and defiant. “We're his friends.”

Arthwr shares a wide-eyed look with Merlin, marches past the other people in the tent and opens the flap. “What's going on!” he begins, but then trails off. “Gwaine, Percival...” 

At the sound of those names Merlin joins Arthwr at the entrance to the tent. Sure enough Gwaine and Percival are standing outside. Their tunics are covered in dirt, they're wearing scruffy beards that have clearly gone long untended, and their faces are grubby with several layers of mud and dust. But it's definitely them. Merlin would recognise them from among a thousand persons.

“Let them in,” Arthwr says, addressing the guards. “I know these two.”

The guards outside escort Gwaine and Percival into the tent. When they're released, the two of them stumble. On an order from Arthwr the guards retire, likely to station themselves outside. Merlin doesn't bother to check. He only cares about what's going on inside, about the two new arrivals. Percival is standing at attention, while Gwaine is patting himself clean, though there's no way he can get so without dunking all his clothes and then himself into a vat of water. “Hello, Nemo.” He grins a feline grin. “Good to see you.”

“How,” Arthwr says, breathing through his mouth. “How on earth have you managed to get here? Weren't you...”

“Happy in Cirenaica, lying low in a pretty coastal town?” Gwaine says, the grin still firmly in place. “Yes, I was. Then I had this dream--”

“Me too,” interjects Percival. 

“Then I had this dream,” Gwaine continues, seeking Percival's eyes, looking for confirmation. “A beautiful, beautiful woman said that you needed us. That we had to come and find you.”

“Morgana,” Merlin says, and Arthwr's pupils go larger with understanding.

“Well,” Gwaine says. “She didn't tell us her name, but she said we should fight for you.”  
“You want to fight for me?” says Arthwr, a little sound of confusion emanating from his lips. “You want to enlist under my command?”

“Well, from what we gather you're fighting the Romans, right?” says Gwaine. “We did notice because we stole past a whole campful of the bastards on our way here.”

“They have many men,” Percival supplies. “Scores and scores and scores.”

“Yes, we do know as much,” Arthwr says in answer to him.

“Perce and I have many reasons to fight the Romans,” Gwaine says, grinding his teeth together in such a fashion that his whole face tightens. “So we thought we'd throw our lot in with you.”

Leon steps forwards, “I'm sorry, but I don't get it. Who are these two and why are you countenancing them, Sire?”

Without bothering to address Leon's comment, Gwaine waggles an eyebrow. “Sire?” He whistles. “The hot lady in the dream didn't say you'd done so well for yourself.”

“I'm the king of the Albionenses,” Arthwr says to Gwaine, then to Leon, “These two helped me when I was in Rome. Without them I might have died.”

“I thought that was Merlin,” Leon says, quickly ducking his head when Arthwr's eyes fire. “But of course, if they're your friends...”

“They're my friends,” Arthwr says, his eyes lighting on Percival and Gwaine. “Kneel,” he then adds rather point blank.

Gwaine makes a face. “You know how I don't like that kind of thing, don't you?”

“Kneel,” Arthwr says, his mouth twitching only slightly, his countenance mostly serious.

Percival goes on his knees and tugs Gwaine down.

Arthwr smiles. He places his hand on Gwaine's shoulder. “I name you my retainer and general of my army.” He does the same by Percival and says, “I name you my retainer and general of my army.”

When Gwaine and Percival climb back to their feet, Arthwr says, “You're bound to me by your choice but free to walk away should you desire to do so.” 

Percival and Gwaine nod in assent. Since they're now under his command, Arthwr assigns them tasks for the morrow. He also explains to them the strategy they're going to adopt on the battlefield, inclusive of the role Merlin's going to play, and describes to them how the Cantii and the Belgae are going to weigh in. 

Gwaine takes it all in stride as though he's been made for war. Considering how good he was in the arena, that is, perhaps, true. It's when Merlin's role is mentioned though that he falters a bit. 

From then on Gwaine stares a little too openly at Merlin and even wolf whistles. Percival too seems curious about Merlin. He certainly takes to looking at him as if he's some odd marvellous creature. To avoid any more embarrasment and to nip in the bud any speculations as to his proclivities, Merlin tackles the subject of his magic head on and clears up Gwaine and Percival's doubts about it. He tells them about his religion, and his past as a druid apprentice. Names Brigid as his titular goddess and tries to describe what it's like to have magical powers. 

Though Merlin started speaking for Gwaine and Percival's benefit, it soon becomes clear that everyone in the room, even Arthwr, is listening keenly, ears pricked, mouths a little open. Merlin supposes that's what he gets for not opening up sooner.

When the general curiosity regarding Merlin's magic is satisfied, Arthwr reverts to discussing more general matters. First of all he asks his two new recruits whether they think they're up for their duties. When Gwaine and Percival swear they are, Arthwr nods. He questions the others as well. They all put up a brave front, vowing they'll resist the Romans whatever happens. So Arthwr has nothing left to do but give a few more reccomendations, though he does take a few minutes to expand on the dangers the day ahead presents. Lastly, he makes provisions for all contingencies, including his death.

It's late at night by the time he's done. They only have a few hours left before they'll have to engage the Romans so the people in the tent disperse. Thinking that Arthwr will have to centre himself before he leads his people to battle, Merlin makes for the tent flap.

“Stay,” Arthwr says, an exhalation following the words. His shoulders go down. It's a subtle thing, barely a movement, but with the others gone, Arthwr diminishes, deflates. “Please, stay.”

Merlin lets go of the tent flap, walks back to Arthwr. “Arthwr,” he says, not sure if he should reach out to him, if he has any right to shift Arthwr's attention away from the upcoming battle. “I--”

Arthwr takes a step back. “Unless...”

Merlin cocks his head. “Unless what?”

“If you feel I've used you badly,” Arthwr says, pursing his lips, his eyes getting wider, “I'd understand.”

Merlin shakes his head. “What do you mean 'used me badly'?”

“You offered to use your magic in battle,” Arthwr says, arching an eyebrow. “I realise you did it because you thought I wouldn't get the support of the nobles otherwise, but you didn't have to.”

“Arthwr--”

“I know you're a healer,” Arthwr says, his gaze softening. “I know you wouldn't want to...”

In a burst of motion Merlin prowls up to Arthwr, grabs his face in his hands. “I offered to do that because I want to protect you. I can't fight the way Leon and the others can, because--” He lifts his shoulders so he can convey how frail he is, “but I can do it if I use my magic. And nothing, nothing will ever stop me from wanting to protect you.”

Arthwr breathes loudly through his nose. “I don't want to compromise your morals.”

Merlin doesn't say he compromised his morals a long time ago, when he first picked up a sword in Rome. It's been a slippery slope, since then but he doesn't regret it. He pulls Arthwr forward, so their lips touch. “There's nothing more important to me than you.”

“Your integr--” 

Merlin touches Arthwr's lips with his, plunges into the kiss, his pulse skittering out of synch with the rest of him. “I will protect you,” he says, nuzzling Arthwr's face, brushing his lips down his cheek. “It's part of who I am, what I need to do. Nothing else matters.” 

“I don't want you to think you have to kill for me,” Arthwr says. “It's not...”

“Why I am with you,” Merlin says, nodding, turning his face a notch so his lips are parallel to Arthwr's. “I know. I never thought that.”

Arthwr bobs his head, wraps his arms around Merlin, exhales against Merlin's lips, renewing their kiss, setting a slow pace that's a nudging of lips on lips, a tasting of breath, a careful nuzzling. The kiss opens by increments, tentatively, until it all blooms into a hot slide of tongues, steady caresses that melt Merlin's spine. 

Arthwr draws Merlin's tongue between his lips and muzzles on it. With a hiss Merlin grabs Arthwr's hair, pushing his tongue into Arthwr's mouth, delving deep, building up a rhythm that chokes him of his breath, one that evokes sex, that makes Arthwr grab for his tunic, that makes him fist the fabric as though he wants to tear it off Merlin. 

The nature of Arthwr's touch, its febrile quality, makes Merlin come alive. It exposes raw nerves, his need, his fears. It's terrifying, knowing that Arthwr can wean that from his kisses, can taste his desperation, can suckle love and affection from his tongue. But he doesn't want to shield himself, to make the walls go up, make himself obscure. He doesn't want to protect himself. Arthwr's become his life and Merlin wants Arthwr to know who he is. Merlin wants Arthwr to see him through and through, no defences, no false courage coming into play.

“Arthwr,” Merlin says, and if it sounds like a prayer, if his tone's on the edge of broken, it's all right by him. He doesn't need to come across as composed. “Arthwr.”

Arthwr undoes his fist, clutches Merlin by the hipbone, a thumb smudging the shadows crossing Merlin's face. “If it's my last night...”

Merlin knows what Arthwr means, feels it too, knows it in a way that's not only cerebral, a knowledge of what's about to come, but in a fashion that's deeper and much more mystical. He meets Arthwr's eyes with his, knowing that his own must tell the tale too, understanding that need must be written in his gaze, etched deep in it, just as his fear is. His knees nearly give, his body close to sagging. 

Arthwr grabs his forearms, walks him to the pelts laid out in the most hidden part of the tent. He doesn't say anything other than 'Merlin', but the look in his eyes says he gets it. 

When Arthwr covers him with his body, Merlin shakes. For a moment he doesn't see anything, not Arthwr, not the tent, not the guttering of the candles, and not the shadows that envelop the corner they're in. He sees the battlefield instead. They sky grey and inclining to thunder, the masses of people, the hoisted shields, the ranks of horses ready for the charge, mud and blood, and darkness. 

But then Arthwr covers him with his weight, and Merlin looks up, takes in Arthwr's face, the light in his eyes, his earnest, awe-filled expression. He makes out the loyalty in it, the honesty. He recognises their surroundings too. He feels the softness of the pelts he's lying on, notices how the soft glow of the candles burnishes fabric, those walls of fluttering canvas around them, which now seem to be bleeding red. 

When Arthwr's lips skim his throat, Merlin feels his body burn with a rush that's like the thrill that catches a hold of you when you're on the brink of action.

“Merlin,” Arthwr says, “are you with me?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, placing a hand between them, on Arthwr's heart. 

“Whatever happens I'll always be with you.” He's voicing a truth that resonates deep in his bones, that is coded into his marrow, that lights his magic up from the inside, making it bleed out of him in leaps and sparks. “Forever.” 

“Your eyes,” Arthwr says, but then his voice breaks, and he doesn't finish the sentence, probably because Merlin is undoing his belt and rucking up his tunic by then. “Merlin.”

“Hush now,” Merlin says, as his fingers circle Arthwr's cock. It swells rapidly in his grip, warm, hard and yet somehow a little fragile under the layer of skin.

Arthwr opens his mouth, warm breath rattles out of him. As he thrusts his hips, he buries his head in Merlin's neck and Merlin senses the pulse of his breathing, of his essence, as it fans in and out of him. 

With his free hand Merlin palms Arthwr's nape, guides his mouth to his. 

They start a soft kiss, tongues brushing against each other softly, slowly. Blindly, Arthwr tugs at Merlin's clothes, pushes his tunic up to bare his hips and groin. He palms Merlin's prick. With a shock of warmth and friction, his fingers tighten around Merlin. The motion Arthwr starts takes the breath from him, crashes his lungs, puts fire in him. He aches where Arthwr touches him with an ache that's deep and liquid, an erosion of his body. His muscles clench and his heart stutters off in a crescendo of heartbeats. His ribcage doesn't seem to want to contain it. It just rises and rises.

Their kisses deepen, get an edge to them that's like chaos, become so fierce they burn Merlin's skin and his heart, and drown his senses. To the same rhythm as that of their hunger, they press their bodies together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, skin to skin. 

They kiss, mouths open, lips swollen, bitten across, stinging hard. They thrust into each other's hands, cocks sliding wetly one against the other. 

Breath coming fast, too fast, they move in a push and pull that becomes slicker and hotter by the second. Merlin sobs, bites back the noises he wants to make. But when they start going faster, when their thrusting and bucking speeds up, he gasps in Arthwr's ears, throws his head back. 

He leaves it to Arthwr to finish them off then, because Merlin's teetering on the brink of dissolution and he can't think or move his body except to thrash and keen. He's nothing but his senses, the warmth that ratchets up inside him and the well of rudderless need that drives him forward. 

He sinks into his own body, his own pleasure. The world blurs around him, bleeds crimson and golden. The physical impact of what he's doing, of Arthwr's actions, rushes him like a surprise and takes him in the solar plexus. He can't draw breath, let alone reason. Waves of feeling crash into him the way a storm batters a naked stretch of shoreline. His stomach tightens, his muscles ripple and his insides unspool, waterfall. 

Even as Merlin comes, Arthwr continues to thrust. As he does, soft staccato noises pass his lips. He clutches Merlin's hips, pulls him to him, his movements stutter, become volatile. Noiselessly, he sheds come on Merlin's cock and belly and it's warm and wet and slick. It smells like Arthwr, like sex and flesh and them, and it's good and human. There's no kingly dignity to this act. But it's what Merlin wants, to be there for Arthwr, man to man.

When they're done, they clutch at each other, their legs tangled, their breath slowing to the same tempo. 

Arthwr puts his head on Merlin's shoulder, breathes in and out. The aftershocks of orgasm have made Merlin weak and soft and silly. They must have because Merlin catches himself trying to impress this moment upon his memory, the exact weight of Arthwr, the specific feel of his skin, smooth where there are long expanses of flesh, callused where the skin has corded, yielding where is muscles are less prominent. He makes sure he learns Arthwr by heart, shores up data against a day he won't be able to.

“If I don't come back,” Arthwr starts.

Merlin tries to hush him with a finger on his lips.

But Arthwr bats it away and continues, “If I don't come back I want you to protect my people. Save them.” He kisses Merlin's jaw, lays a hand on his heart. “Then I want you to look after yourself.”

“You will make it back.” Merlin strokes Arthwr's arm, cups his nape. “If it's the last thing I do...” 

“Merlin,” Arthwr starts again.

Merlin hushes him with his magic. “You'll make it back,” he says, willing himself to believe it. 

Merlin lifts the spell and Arthwr speaks from under a veil of corrugated eyebrows, “I want to make it back too, for my people, for you, for me to enjoy my time with you. But if it doesn't happen... I'm content to die. In their name, for them, for this cause. But I want you to be fine.” He pauses, seeks Merlin's gaze. “Will you be fine?”

Merlin closes his eyes, turns his head. The glow of the candles continues to flicker behind his eyelids. “I will be fine,” Merlin says, makes his voice steady though he feels like choking. “I will be... all right.”

Arthwr seems to accept that, for he tilts his head a little, studies Merlin awhile, then lays his head on Merlin's chest. He falls asleep to that promise, his body going heavier and heavier, his breathing more and more regular.

As they lie folded together on the same stretch of soft pelts, Merlin waits for dawn. He breathes Arthwr in, burning the scent of him on his nostrils. He brushes the flat of his hand down the length of his back, branding the shape of him on his hands. He wraps himself around him, willing to be shield that forever protects him. He does that and counts the minutes till morning.

 

~~~~ 

 

The confluence of the Medwaeg is half land and half sea. Gravel rises up in terraces that conflate into small rounded hills. Chalk quarries shine in the sun, the soil rich with the substance. Where the river meets land mud banks form, slip sliding mountains that change the geography of the coastline hour by hour. 

It's s a raw morning, the sky grey, as if coats of lead have been painted across the horizon line. The sea is a deep cobalt blue, heavy, motionless. The river water is barely clearer, though it churns fast into white spray. 

The valley is still partly shrouded in darkness, the smoke from the Roman fires lending a grey sheen to the air. By contrast, and in spite of the rising river mist, the Tor must look like a green haven that has nothing in common with the sinister charcoal sea. Gulls fly above the cusp of the Tor, call out overhead, and swoop outwards towards the Medwaeg and the sea beyond.

The Romans swim across the river, towards the line of British soldiers mounted on their chariots, sitting on their horses. They make for the line of British foot soldiers standing tall against their advance, their spears locked in their hands.

The Romans pour forth from hundreds of flat-bottomed barges tied end to end. The line of vessels bobs on the river water. It's a cordon that stretches back to the shore, and even further back towards the heaving ocean. 

From his perch on the Tor Merlin can see as the Romans spread across the heather covered river banks, watches them reach the lower slopes of the valley, and darken it with their presence. 

He can also see Mithian's banners cracking in the wind to the east, unfurling blue and green against the thunderous grey of the sky. She's holding one of them herself, sitting astride a black palfrey, chain mail encasing her body. To the west are Prince Adminius' forces, recognisable by virtue of their ochre painted shields.

Arthwr has taken the centre, the front-line that will take the greatest amount of battering. Merlin can pick him out even from where he is. His armour shines like a sunburst, his horse the tallest of them all. 

The men of the fourth legion open the assault. The foot soldiers, drenched in water from the fording of the river, go first. Then come the mounted warriors. They break upon the earthwork and trenches Arthwr's troops dug in the night. They climb them, engage Arthwr's flanks. But not his middle. 

Similarly, the centre of the Roman ala stays put, occupying lower ground. Down to the last man they beat their shields, raising hell, but not attacking Arthwr's forces. As though light's dawning upon him, Merlin understands. The Romans mean to lure the bulk of Arthwr's army onto lower ground where they can fight them on more equal terms. No doubt if the Britons moved their forces downwards, the legionaries would pour upon them like hail.

In an attempt to enrage them, to entice them into danger, the Romans jeer the Albionenses. They do so with lewd gestures and broken words, calling them cowards, calling them vile. Arthwr lifts his hand, commands his people to hold. Unable to entice the Albionenses down, the Romans start to labour uphill.

The battle for Britain begins with thunder. The first real Roman charge starts. The imperial troops swarm the Albionenses. Spears fly, shining like lightning as they arce through the air. Sword hits shield. Sword hits sword. Horses rear and prance. Arrows fall in a thick dark rain that seems to be hailing directly from the sky.

The Roman war host comes in a storm of hooves, a blur of charging infantry, their ranks closely-knit, their breastplate dun under the leaden light of a thunderous sky. They sound horns and rain blows on the Britons' shields. Their ballistas throw stones bathed in pitch that spark flames as they hit the air. 

Under this onslaught the manes of British horses catch fire; a fine rain of incandescent dust that spreads among the files of the Britons. Still Arthwr's men hold. 

The Romans ring the Briton's position, moving like a tide against them. 

The horses churn mud. The track-ways give. But the Romans continue on. They cross the last hedge by ploughing down the Albionenses' infantry and begin their climb towards Arthwr's own position. 

The best Roman warriors, the members of their crack legions, are in the front rank, shields locked tight around their arms, the end of their spears red with the blood of Britons. 

The opposition withstands, however, and the Romans slow down. Once again shield clashes on shield. Masses of men encounter masses of men. They push each other backwards and forwards over the tiniest patch of land. 

Axes flash over shield rims. Gladi swing forth and men fall. Spears are thrust and hacked down. Swords are struck, their blades getting dented. Feathered arrows fly. The din of battle rises as weapons strike armour, and blood and gore get spattered along the length of the sloping riverbank. 

The defenders fight have repulsing invaders with all they, even if the imperials have numbers and knowledge of war craft on their side. 

The earth chants a mourning chant, for the lives wasted, for the blood that be-dews the shores of the Medwaeg. 

Merlin can pick out those ethereal voices, can feel the pain of those earthen spirits. He can sense the earth tremble at his feet with the release of their sorrow. Yet Merlin is also conscious of other, more mundane sounds, those that come from the battlefield. 

Grunts and howls tear the air. Men wail, their screams heralds of death. 

Even so, the Britons don't give up. Even if the danger of being outflanked is very present, they stand their ground. Arm raised, Arthwr orders his generals to keep positions, and his men don't give an inch, even if the Romans come at them in tides. 

Hour after hour it goes on. The ground beneath the soldiers' feet gets crimson with blood, the air heavy with its smell. 

Faced with the Romans' failure to make any headway, Plautius reinforces the troops already on the field with new shock waves of cavalry.

That's the cue for Mithian to act. She raises her arm, her cloak fluttering in the wind. She orders an attack. Spearheading a band of horsemen, she comes down hill, hair flying behind her, bow ready, arrow nocked.

The Romans look uphill to check where the noise assaulting their ears is coming from. By then it's too late. Too late to throw spears or arrows at Mithian's force, too late to arrest its descent. The Belgae crash upon them in one body, yelling their war chants, shouting, beating their drums to the rhythm of their sacred war songs. The thump of their boots on grass is like the roar of a landslide, the clash of their shields when they impact the Romans' is thunderous.

From his saddle Plautius orders his left flank to march. They move in unison like a war machine, joining those legionaries who are suffering the most under the attack of the Belgae.

A trumpet sounds. Merlin recognises this sound. It's the cue for Adminius' forces to join the fray. They do so with a mighty clash, a dull grinding sound that echoes up all the way up to Merlin's position on the Tor. 

Adminius' muster is not great but the earth shakes under the feet of his men as they too encounter the Romans.

Two armies are now going head to head. Merlin can't tell whether the Romans have more auxiliaries at their disposal, if their ships have disgorged all of their muster. But he knows that all the Britons are now in the field. 

The Romans heave against them, pushing uphill, trampling them under foot. Britons are being speared, being chopped by axes. And yet they do not back down. Their faces stay grim as they hold their shields aloft. The crush of bodies is such that there's barely enough space to lift a sword.

Adminius' warriors strike against the Romans' western flank again and again, attempting to go around them. But the Romans have an expert general, and are not easily scared by such manoeuvres. So they don't fold back. Plautius' troops reassemble into new lines that are hard to break. The Cantii strike at them them, prod them with their blades. But no decisive action can be pulled off.

The two bodies of men lock together. The Roman front shoves forwards, pushing back against the Briton one. The rear gets thrust back towards the foot of the Tor. 

The situation looks desperate for the allied Britons yet Merlin knows why Arthwr chose that position for them. The Romans can push at the British side, but not come around it. The mountain shields them from that kind of attack. 

Even if they're so protected on one side though, the Cantii and the Belgae are going under. The Romans are simply too many to withstand. There are thousands of them; man replaces fallen man and on they keep coming, battering the Britons. 

The Romans send more and more alae forwards, point them up the slope: spearmen and cavalry, foot soldiers and standard bearers. They cheer as they go. They think they have won the day. 

They vie for the hill with the Britons, strike at their troops. But the ground is steep and rough and boggy in places. The Romans have the disadvantage in that they don't know the territory well. Yet they're persistent, have method, listen to the directives of their commanders, the orders of their engineers. 

So they trample ahead, spearing through the wall of men opposite them. And little by little they advance, seeping through the gaps the fallen Britons leave behind. They clamber on and on, relentlessly, working at fanning the panic the tribes are experiencing. 

The fear mounts when Adminius gets surrounded. He has his sword drawn, but his shield is down. Two centurions break ranks and gallop towards him. It's clear they've realised he's one of the leaders, and noble too boot. Adminius' horse is too fine and his gear too eye-catching for him to be singled out as anything other than a chieftain. 

A weighty Roman sword chops into his shield, flaying the paint off it. But Adminius had realised what the centurions are trying to do and parries the blow. Not content with the result of their attack, the Romans become more insistent. They batter his shield more insistently and thrust their body mass at it. With two bulky men weighing him down, Adminius is forced to lower it. When they notice what's going on, how beset their leader is, the Cantii warriors rush towards Adminius, going to the rescue, but even Merlin knows it's too late. Adminius gets a spear in the neck and falls off his horse. 

After that the Romans seem to get a second wind, a heady sense of their advantage, of impending victory, and they press further, more incisively. 

They clearly want to reap the benefits of Adminius' death, use it to their advantage. Leaderless, the Cantii act as though they don't know what to do. They start milling around without purpose, begin to draw back. 

The Romans charge them with more gusto, concentrating on them rather than the Belgae, led by an assured Mithian. The Belgae are holding their own the way the Cantii can't. So the legionaries make the latter their objective. 

The Cantii shuffle together, form a shield wall very similar to the legions' testudo formation, but the madness of battle surrounds them. They can't overwhelm the Romans. They can only weather their attack.

That's when Arthwr tries a sortie. He pushes free of the tangle of men and steeds he's fighting against and launches his horse into a gallop, shouting, “With me! With me!”

Sword held aloft, he gallops down the slope towards the thick of the Roman column. He's like a beacon, a centre of light. His polished breastplate shines like platinum in the pale morning sun; his shield gleams with a glow that's stronger than any star in the sky. 

The Romans know who he is, what he represents, what his action means. But as Arthwr cascades towards them, they only hold their horses as spellbound, waiting for impact. 

For a brief moment the air stills and the only sound that resounds along the banks of the Medwaeg is the thunder that comes on the heels of Arthwr's descent. 

But then the Romans rally and charge forth, ready to stop Arthwr. 

“My lord,” Leon shouts, spurring his mount after Arthwr. To Arthwr's guard he yells. “Protect your king!”

The moment Arthwr comes upon them, the Romans engage him. Merlin loses sight of him in the melée. He can see the battle rage below. He can spot the knights on horseback clashing against the Roman host, wielding swords, using spears. 

It's a riot of mud and blood and confusion. Sword hammers against sword. Lances snap, cross, pierce flesh. Bodies topple in the mud, sink into it, get trampled by horses. The horses themselves rear as they're hit. 

Overhead crows circle and caw. The screams of the men drown Merlin's senses. They get distorted and Merlin walks in an underworld of darkness and fire where flames leap high and rocks loom even higher, hiding cauldrons that forge the steel destined to take the lives of the combatants. 

Then the fog recedes and Merlin spots Arthwr. He's sitting atop his horse, in the thick of the fight, his cloak torn, his face bloodied by the splatter of enemy blood. He's lost his shield but he has spear and lance still. His skin is smudged across with dirt; his hair is streaked down the length with mud. Yet the expression he's wearing, one of deep concentration, is so Arthwr it takes the heart away from Merlin. 

“Sound the horn,” Arthwr shouts, as he blocks all the blows raining on him. “Sound the horn.”

The horn sounds and Merlin knows that the time has come for him to intervene, the agreed upon signal has been given. 

He closes his eyes to the carnage. “Brigid forgive me,” he says before seeking a connection to his magic. He finds it in his skin, in his bones, in his heart. He goes looking for the threads that connect his magic to the earth. He finds them glowing, growing strong, emanating a powerful radiance, like the molten core that moves the earth, like the cosmos that shines eternal in the sky.

He gathers that power to him. It's in him and outside of him. He's the conduit and the magnet that attracts it. The earth makes him one with it, feeds him. It gives him its power, its strength. History unfolds before and inside him. It all takes place in the span of a few seconds. Evolves in his heart. In his brain. Explodes into something bigger than him that reaches out towards the universe. His power grows and grows. It becomes infinite.

The magic sinks into his core like bolts of lightning. It wraps itself around the very centre of him. It embraces him, penetrating him to the very essence of his being. It burns like wildfire around his heart, around his lungs. He opens his eyes and everything he sees is veiled with a glow of pure incandescent gold. He's on fire.

He jams the staff into the earth, screams a raw yell, and the magic pours out of him. It blasts out of his hands. It tornadoes out of his body with a mere thought. It seeps out of his pores like a storm that'll undo the earth. 

The world lights up. His magic swirls upwards in walls of mist that exude from the earth. It becomes fire. It becomes luminescence. Veils and veils of it that cover the earth, trickle back into it, to the root of the trees, to the very depths of the soil of Britain. It becomes thunder. He blasts it towards the Roman legions. It becomes lightning he pours on their front lines, on their rear. The eagles sitting atop the Roman standards shatter. Banners burst into flames. Shields melt. His magic becomes waves that overwhelm the ships anchored along the river, dashing them to pieces. It becomes a storm that sinks the vessels still at sea.

Merlin lifts his staff. The heavens fall on the Roman centuries.

He raises his other hand, and sees that he's glowing with a pearlescent glow, like a star at midnight. The light that emanates from him is so blinding he can't withstand it. He sinks into his magic. He is magic. Sees the past, present, and future. Knows who he is and who he will be. The never ending circle that he is. The dragon biting its tail. Merlin. Emrys. Tied to this land forever more.

This moment of clarity is too overwhelming, bigger than he is, than any man can be. He opens his eyes. Sees only white, ethereal light, the world split into particles of it, tiny conflagrations of force that make up the pattern it's built into. He knows no more. 

 

~ ~ ~ ~ 

 

Merlin comes to by degrees. He floats up from the dark velvety darkness he fell into like a ghost. He hears the voices first. However he can't be sure of who they are linked to to. He doesn't know whether they belong to earthly beings or to the spirits of the air. He blinks. Light blinds him, so he shuts his eyes again.

He's lying on his back and something heavy rests on his chest. A swirling spell of dizziness, and confusion overtakes him. Fractured memories come at him, but he doesn't remember how he came to be where he is. 

To be honest, he has no idea as to where that is. He realises he ought to find out, check. But he isn't sure he wants to. His body feels battered; he's sapped of all energy. It feels safe in the darkness. 

But light plays on his eyelids and the quiet talking going on around him becomes more and more distinct, more attention grabbing. Merlin focuses hard on the words that are being said. “He's waking!” 

“With all due respect, Sire, we thought he was waking twice before and well...”

“He'll make it.”

“Yes, Sire.” 

Merlin rubs his eyes, wishing vision into them. He bats his eyelids and things finally come into focus. Arthwr's face stops being a luminous blob and coalesces into its own shape. By cocking his head, Merlin also sees Leon, Gwaine, Mithian, and Percival.

Despite cracked lips that bleed when he speaks, Merlin asks, “What happened?”

“You blasted the Roman army into oblivion!” Gwaine says, moving a few steps closer to the trundle bed Merlin's lying on. “Up from the Tor--”

Arthwr cuts him off. “You nearly killed yourself.”

Merlin sits up and winces when a collection of assorted aches hits him. “I didn't. I'm fine, aren't I?”

“To be fair,” Leon says, “you've slept for a whole day.”

Arthwr takes his hand off Merlin's chest. “You'll see why we thought you'd never...”

“But I did,” Merlin says, because he doesn't want Arthwr to be angry with him. “I'm... fine.”

Arthwr stands, paces, turns around and sits back onto the trundle bed. “No, you're not. It's clear that you're not, that you gave too much." He bows his head, appears meeker. "However, the Albionenses owe you a great debt, Merlin.”

“And the Belgae,” says Mithian, putting a hand on her heart. She looks a little the worse for wear. There's a gash on her forehead, dirt is smudged across her face, and she's still wearing bloody chain mail over her tunic. “We are grateful and intend to honour our--”

A commotion outside interrupts Mithian. One of Arthwr's guards pokes his head in between the tent flaps. “A Roman envoy, Sire.”

Leon is the first to move, hand to his sword. Arthwr puts a hand on his shoulder and, bypassing him, exits the tent. Gwaine, Percival and Mithian trail behind him. Fearing that Arthwr might be in danger, Merlin stumbles to his feet. He's wearing an under-tunic and nothing else, his scrawny legs sticking out. So he wraps a blanket around himself – good both for decency and as a shield against the cold – and totters out of the tent.

Elianus dismounts in the space before it, takes off his plumed helmet. In a body Arthwr's guards point their swords at him. Elianus raises an eyebrow and holds his hands up. “I come bearing a message from Emperor Claudius,” he says. “I don't intend you any harm.”

“Why should we believe you,? Leon says, sword half unsheathed.

“Let him speak,” Arthwr says, striding forwards. He braces his feet wide apart, hands on his belt. He tilts his head at Elianus, inviting him to continue.

“Claudius Caesar sends his greetings,” says Elianus.

Gwaine snorts and Percival shoves him. 

Elianus acts as though he has neither seen nor heard that and continues. “He salutes King Arthwr of the Albionenses and asks for leave to collect the corpses of the Roman fallen.”

“Why should we grant him leave?” Leon asks. “He'd have taken our land and our freedom with it if only he could have.”

“Because,” says Elianus, maintaining his outward calm, “we're only asking for permission to honour our dead.”

“It shall be granted,” Arthwr says. “You may give your fallen burial.”Arthwr says.

“I expected nothing less from you, King Arthwr,” Elianus says with a little inclination of the head. He seems to be making sure he'll meet Arthwr's eyes then, and some kind of communication passes between them, but Merlin can't tell what that is. “I thank you nonetheless. Your humanity and understanding do you credit.”

Arthwr nods. “As a sign of respect for your dead, I'll grant you three days. However, I expect you to be gone after that. If you're still here beyond the three day mark, your actions will be seen as an act of war.”

“I do understand that,” says Elianus. “We will make sail in three days time.”

“And never return,” Gwaine says, crossing his arms.

Elianus smiles. “I can't promise that. I'm only a messenger. But I'll suggest to the emperor we don't want to test your mettle again.” He walks to his horse, takes the reins, but doesn't mount. “You are all great warriors. Rome will stand in fear of your might for a long time.” This said, he climbs into the saddle, turns his horse around, and knees it to a trot. He disappears in a cloud of dust.

Arthwr turns around, sees Merlin. His face tenses, he makes as if to speak, mouth open and all, but then his face mellows. He comes over to him, wedges his shoulder under Merlin's arm and redirects him to the tent. “You need to sleep now. We'll talk about boundaries when you're better.”

“Boundaries?” Merlin asks, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Please, don't try and make a fool of me. You know what I mean,” Arthwr says, sitting him on the bed and placing a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. “But we shouldn't talk about that at present. You ought to sleep.”

“Arthwr,” Merlin asks, grabbing him by the arm when he steps back. “Are you angry with me?”

Arthur opens his mouth, chews air. He snaps his jaws shut, then starts talking again. “I'm not angry with you.” He steps back, lets his shoulders slump. “I just... I just don't want you to over-exert yourself.”

“I wasn't--” Merlin protests.

“The Tor, Merlin,” Arthwr says, lips pursed, eyes landing keen on Merlin. “It came alight. As if the mountain was on fire, as if... I thought it was the end of the world and instead it was you. That wasn't... That wasn't how I'd imagined it. What I thought we had agreed upon.”

“I did it for you,” Merlin says, quick at volleying off the words, apologetic.

“I know,” Arthwr says, putting his hands up. “What I want to know is whether you're planning to do more of that? To do so much magic it nearly kills you?” He takes a big breath. “To do so much magic it takes you somewhere else.”

“I am magic,” Merlin says helplessly. “I'll always be that. But that power is at your service. You don't have to fear it.” His eyes smart. “My magic is for you.”

Arthwr scrubs a hand down his face. “I don't want all that. It's too big of a gift. A tremendous one. At the end of the day your powers belong only to you to do with as you think right.” Arthwr's eyes become huge and bright. “What I do want...” His cheeks fill and he exhales. “Is you. The magic doesn't matter to me in as much as it makes you you. I don't need to have it at my service.” He splutters a bit, then adds, “But I do thank you for what you did. For the lives you spared.”

Merlin's face had fallen throughout Arthwr's speech. He knows he not only saved lived but took them. He undesrtands that. But he smiles tentatively when he hears Arthwr's tone, when he realises Arthwr doesn't deem him a cruel man.

“Look, Merlin, I'm tired.” Arthwr looks it. His cheeks are wan and hollow and there's a variety of cuts and slashes on him that must hurt and that Merlin is impatient to heal. “There's so much to see to. I need to organise care for our wounded. Our own dead. Adminius died and his host is looking to me for guidance. Messengers need to be sent. Ambassadors to be instructed. And... and... Above all you need to rest. I just want you to promise me that you won't over do it. That you won't pledge too much--”

“I'll always be at your side, Arthwr.”

Arthwr's head snaps up. “That wasn't--” A smile of slow blooming quirks his lips. “You manipulative bastard... “

“That's my promise.”

Arthwr shakes his head, his smile not fading. “All right, all right.” He holds a finger up. “We'll talk. I have to go now...” He looks to the tent flaps and to the hint of world outside it. “But I'll be back soon and then we'll discuss this properly.”

Merlin makes a show of settling in his trundle bed, blankets up to his chin. The last thing he sees prior to actually falling asleep is Arthwr turning his head to face him just before he ducks out of the tent.

 

*****

 

Epilogue.

 

Maxima Caesarensis, 209 AD

 

Leaning half his weight on his staff, Taliesin slogs on, the tall grass brushing against his calves. 

The boy skips ahead, then retraces his steps and rejoins Taliesin, keeping pace with him. “Will the Romans ever go away?” he asks.

Taliesin stops, dabs at his forehead. “They were rebuffed twice in the past. There will come a time when they'll be ousted again.”

The boy nods thoughtfully, eyes wide, speculative, his gaze hinting at cleverness. “Arthwr chased them away. The great king of old.”

Taliesin reprises walking. The border to the land of the Picts is not far, yet he's tired and feeling the trek in his bones. The circle of stone looming eastwards talks to him, whispers to him. “Let's go over there. We'll sit down and rest. Have a proper lesson.”

Old bones aching, it takes Taliesin nearly an hour to reach the stone circle. Knees creaking, he places his staff on the grass and sits at the base of one of the biggest stones. The boy folds down across from him. “So our lesson,” Taliesin starts. “What were we talking about?”

The boy sits with his legs crossed and grabs his toes. “Arthwr,” the boy supplies helpfully, his eyes shining.

“Oh yes Arthwr,” says Taliesin, remembering the little he ever saw of the man, his proud bearing, his honest eyes. “King Arthwr kept the Romans at bay for fifty years.”

“After the great battle of the Medwaeg,” says the boy, swishing an imaginary sword in the air. 

“Yes, though the Romans tried invading again after that,” says Taliesin, resting his back against the monument. His bones screech, but the support of the stone gives him solace. “So the Britons united. They formed a league to oppose them.”

“And Arthwr was its leader, the High King.”

“Indeed,” says Taliesin. “He started out as King of the Albionenses, then became king of the Cantii too. In time Arthwr's influence expanded. The other leaders, while retaining their crowns, looked to him for overlordiship.”

“Like Queen Mithian,” the boy once again says, blushing a little this time. Taliesin thinks he may be a little infatuated with the historical queen.

“She started out as a princess, but yes,” Taliesin says, chuckling. “She was one of his allies. And she wasn't the only one...”

“The other kings helped Arthwr as well,” the boy says, speaking over Taliesin. “Even the Cautuvellauni. Well, eventually. After they stopped constro.. constor...”

“Consorting you probably meant.” Taliesin arches an eyebrow.

“Yes, consorting with the Romans,” the boy repeats, beaming at the notion he's said it right this time. “But they stopped doing that and recognised Arthwr.”

“The other kings weren't the only allies Arthwr had,” Taliesin says, cautioning the boy against believing that only the men bearing the greater, most tangible titles were those worthy of mention. “His loyal retainers did too. Gwaine and Percival had been slaves once and upheld the throne to their last breath. Leon too did, though he was a noble. And then there was Elianus.”

“Elianus the Praetorian!” the boy squeals, scooting forwards so he's sitting closer to Taliesin. “The one who was born Roman and then cut ties with Rome because he thought Arthwr was braver than the king of the Romans.”

Taliesin laughs. “It wasn't as easy as all that,” he says, though he sees how the boy's too young to understand the subtleties of politics and allegiance shifts. “But he did quit the emperor's guard to serve under Arthwr. He seems to have preferred the latter's ideology, to have developed a special brand of respect for him from the day he fought him in the imperial palace...”

The boy once again mimics fighting. “Because Arthwr was a great warrior.”

“Yes, that too,” Taliesin acknowledges, though that's not what he wants to underline right now. “But, see, that's not the reason why Arthwr achieved peace and prosperity, why his reign is hailed as a golden age. His greatness lay in finding allies and retaining their respect. In gaining Merlin's trust. In offering druids from all over the continent shelter so that our religion and its message could survive. In maintaining peace so that everyone could prosper.”

“But what's the point?” The boy's face falls. “Eventually Arthwr died and the Romans invaded again.”

“One could argue that two generations of people lived happily under his rule and that that was enough.”

The boy pouts.

“Arthwr will rise again,” says Taliesin then, repeating the words the earth and the wind are whispering to him. One day he'll teach the boy how to decipher their language. “And Merlin will stand by his side. When the land most needs them, they will be there to pick up the fight.”

“But how, when?” the boy says, his face twisted with confusion and disappointment. “We need them now!”

“Life doesn't work that way,” Taliesin says. Noticing that the sun has lowered, he picks himself up. “But it's written. It's their destiny. Their tale is not all told yet.” Taliesin tilts his head up so he can gaze at the sky, cocks it so he can catch the murmurings of the breeze. “The earth speaks of Emrys, and so does the sky, and the birds in the trees. Albion remembers Arthwr in his burial mound.”

“I still don't get this,” the boy says, easily scrambling to his feet. “The Romans have overrun us. Why aren't they coming to the rescue?”

“Their destiny is such,” Taliesin says as he recovers his staff, “that they will always come back, but that doesn't mean it will happen when you think it should.”

The boy sticks his lips out. “Well, that's not really any clearer.”

Taliesin looks into the distance. The sun is blazing a darker colour and the road to the Pictish land is long and fraught with dangers. He starts moving back towards the track leading to the border, the wall, the boy in tow, still asking questions, still wanting to know why his wishes haven't been fulfilled. But when he turns, he sees Merlin, young and old, timeless and of his time. He smiles at Taliesin, holds a hand up in salute, and then vanishes among the stones. “That's the mystery of it,” he mutters, once again putting his weight on his staff. “The mystery of Merlin and Arthwr.”

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a complete subversion of history. At the start Arthwr is a bit of a stand in for Verica, the ousted Atrebates king the Romans started their invasion of Britannia over. The parallel doesn't hold much by the the end of the story. 
> 
> Adminius and Plautius are real.
> 
> Druidism truly came to be banned under the Caesars.
> 
> Some historians believe that Aulus Plautius' fleet landed in a city called Rutupiae, (today's Richborough, Kent). But Rutupiae is the Latin name of the place, bestowed upon it by the Romans. Rotguidou is Old Welsh for 'ford'. I was just assuing a Briton wouldn't call the place by the name the Romans gave it post invasion, so I took the liberty of inventing a place name, by using a word the ancient Welsh had. Same goes for my use of the word Medwaeg. It's supposed to be the Medway...
> 
> Nobody knows exactly how many ships Plautius had at his disposal for the invasion of Britain. 800 is one estimate.
> 
> J.P. Alcock's (A Brief History of Roman Britain) take on one detail of the invasion: Plautius probably sailed from Boulogne and, as in the case of Caesar's invasions, there were problems with the tides and the weather because the ships were driven back on their course.
> 
> 209 is the year Septimius Severus tried invading Caledonia


End file.
